


Winter Bird

by martz



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, F/M, Flashbacks, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 08:51:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8660524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martz/pseuds/martz
Summary: In the notebook, he writes : am I Bucky Barnes?He keeps a tract from the museum ; there's Roger's face on it.





	1. part one

The Captain says, « 'Cause I'm with you 'till the end of the line. » He looks like he's gonna cry.

The Soldier stops punching. Something breaks deep in his chest.

There's a young man painting. He has blonde hair and blue eyes, too big for his face. He's complaining about him – _him_ – moving too damn much, but he's smiling anyway. The sunset is bright outside, the walls are tainted orange and yellow from the evening light, and the air smells like cheap smoke and fruits.

And then there's a little boy – blonde hair and blue eyes, so small and fragile. He's struggling for some air that somehow can't get into his lungs. _He_ is telling him to breathe. The boy tries. « What a pussy, » the other kids say. « Can't even run five feet ». But then the little boy gets his head up, and even if the world would crush his bones, his eyes say that he'll resist. He's stronger than them, stronger than _him_ , stronger than anything.

And the blonde boy, older again, is sitting in the corner of some fancy bar. He's looking at _him_ , a grin on his face, while _he_ is dancing with some pretty lady in a navy blue dress, and everytime _his_ eyes land in the boy's, _he aches –_

And then he falls, falls, _falls._

The Captain falls, too.

He falls.

 

*

 

Rogers spits out some water and begins to breathe again. He wants to touch him, make sure he's ok.

He doesn't.

And his left arm aches, even though it can't.

 

*

 

The first thing he steals is a jacket.

He'll probably have to do that a lot, from now on. He's got nothing – no money, no food, no _fucking memories_ , nothing but a rusted mind and this damn arm. Some guy had left the jacket on his chair while paying for his drink inside the coffeeshop. Nobody noticed, but that's not surprising ; he's not a beginner. The cloth is a little bit too tight on his shoulders and the sleeves are too short. He quickly puts his hands in the pockets to make sure nobody sees the metal shining. For all he knows, maybe they wouldn't care ; maybe metal limbs are a common thing, in the outside world. He wouldn't know.

He knows nothing.

He feels something in one of the pockets – the one where his left hand, the real, flesh one, is. He pulls ten bucks out.

Ten bucks. What is he going to do with ten bucks ? He should probably get something to eat.

The lights in the supermarket are too bright, too big, and there are too many things. Three bucks things, fifty cents things, things he's never heard of, or forgot about. He should buy something cheap, save for later.

He wanders a moment in the fruit and vegetables section, because it smells fresh and nice and real, more real than anything he's ever known in this life. He ends up buying a bottle of water and two triangle sandwiches ; he doesn't even check what is inside, he just needs to eat something. He gets lost before finally finding the counters, and when he passes nearby the clothes section, he decides it's a good idea to take something to cover his hand, too.

He walks for ten minutes before finding a park, and a bench to sit on and eat his food. It's cold. He's used to colder.

And the world still doesn't seem real, no. His mind is both asleep and running too fast, and it all looks like a dream. The people who walk in the park look like ghosts, his food tastes like _nothing_ , and everything is too quiet. He wishes it was a dream and he wants to wake up, so hard.

Maybe he will, if he takes the gun behind his back and shoves a bullet into his skull.

 

*

 

Half an hour after, he throws up everything he ingested in an alley.

He keeps vomiting, even after having expulsed all the food. Some guy passes and asks him if he's ok. He tilts his head up to say he's fine, and for one second, he thinks that if this guy wanted to kill him, he couldn't even shoot back.

He's that fucked up.

 

*

 

He should kill himself.

 

*

 

Bucky's twelve years old and some day during winter, his mother makes peach pie. It's not that often that she takes the time to bake sweets ; she says it's for their own good, because too much sugar makes you dumb, but Bucky knows she works in the house all day long, washing their dirty clothes, doing their beds, making dinner. He's old enough to understand her for not finding the time, or the energy.

But when she does, when she bakes, it smells like fucking heaven. Peach pie has always been their favorite, for some reason, and God knows it's hard to have four children to agree on something. Rebecca is probably the only one who likes soup, Bucky likes chicken while Maggie hates it, and Charlie could spend her life eating fresh fruits and vegetable when their mom has to shove some into the others' faces to make them eat some. They happen to fight over dinner, because it's not fair that one gets to eat everything they love while one other hates every single thing on the table. But they all love peach pie. They all get into the kitchen as soon as the smell gets into their rooms, they all get excited when they see what's in the oven.

Then, when their dad comes home in the evening, their eat dinner fast, without complaining, without a single whine, even if there's soup or salad or chicken. And then, mama gets up, puts all the plates into the sink, and brings the pie. They watch her cut it, almost fascinated, and when she hands them their part, it feels like Christmas.

They take their time, making every bite feel special. They don't talk until they're done, but for some reason, they always look at each other to finish it at the same time.

They all love peach pie.

 

*

 

The second thing he steals is a notebook in a bookshop. He also takes a pen. That makes three.

The fourth is a pair of pants in a thrift shop. He also takes a shirt, and a cap. That makes six.

The seventh is a peach.

 

*

 

He hasn't slept in twenty-three hours.  
He walks until he finds himself in front of this big old building. He doesn't know why or how he's there. But he _knows_ who's face it is on the big posters, between the columns. He knows who it is because he was his _mission –_ and somewhere in his chest, something tells him he was something else, something special, but he'd rather not think about that. He was supposed to kill him, the man on the big posters, Captain America. He didn't. He doesn't know why he didn't. He doesn't know why he enters into the building, either. There are more posters, again and again, until he gets into this one particular room. He doesn't why. He doesn't know.

There are US flags and big portraits of him – the Captain, on the walls. He looks great, almighty, like a modern god. Yet everything that comes to his mind when he thinks of him is that broken face when he said he wouldn't fight him, and the water getting out of his lungs when he rescued him. That broken face, broken by him. And the Captain wouldn't punch back, no. He doesn't know why, and he doesn't know why he pulled him out of the goddamn water.

He doesn't know. He doesn't want to.

And yet he looks at his face on the walls, and one of the paintings is showing _him_ , too, next to Rogers. But that can't be him, no. They have the same features, except the guy on the wall looks a little bit smaller, and healthier, and _human,_ and _shit –_ that can't be him.

But there's his face on a screen, too.

 _Bucky Barnes_ , _1917 – 1944._

Bucky Barnes. Bucky Barnes is dead, dead, _dead_ – yet he sees _him_ and Rogers laughing on another screen, talking, too, and you can't hear what they're saying between whispers and chuckles but it feels like he knows, and he doesn't want to know.

He leaves quickly, hustling a kid on his way. He doesn't apologize. Not to the kid, not to Bucky Barnes, not to the hundreds of people he's killed.

 

*

 

In the notebook, he writes : _am I Bucky Barnes?_

He keeps a tract from the museum ; there's Roger's face on it.

 

*

 

 **@darcykirkkk** reblogged a photo from @ **superandy**

« Steve

I don't know _who I_ what to do. I was nobody and I still am nobody but I saw your face and you made all those fucking things appear in my head and _I don't want to_

 _I am nobody_ I am not him _I don't know who I am_

I shouldn't be writing. I'm sorry, I'm sorry I punched your face, I'm so sorry I almost killed you, but I don't know why I saved you, I'm sorry, so sorry, sorry sorry sorry

 _Were we friends?_ Were you and him friends? I'm not him _I'm a fucking monster_

I hope you're good. _I don't know why I hope you're good_

_I'm so sorry »_

**@superandy** : I work at Starbucks and while cleaning before going home, I found this half scrunched on the corner of a table. I have no clue what happened between this person and Steve but it breaks my heart.

 **@stillnotgingerr** : this breaks my heart??? I hope things are going to be ok with that steve guy

 **@darcykirkkk** : i ship them

10 720 notes

 

*

 

He hasn't slept in three days. He spends the days and the nights wandering around. Sometimes he finds a quiet place to crash and eat what he's stolen – the eighth thing he steals is a backpack, because it's starting to become a necessity, and then he steals another peach, because he didn't throw up the first one, and then he steals another sandwich, a doughnut, two bags of chips and a bottle of water, because he wanted to fill the first one but he lost it at some point.

He hasn't slept in three days. He wonders if he's used to that – he doesn't remember. They could have sent him on three days missions, and he wouldn't have slept at all. He would have walked, and he would have driven, and he would have chased, and he would have killed. He wouldn't have slept, no.

« Excuse me, » says a voice next to him. He's sitting under a tree on the side of the road, watching cars and walkers pass while he's counting what's left in his bag. When he raises his head, he sees a girl with brown hair and glasses. She's got something that looks like these news things he saw people use for phonecalls in her hand. « I'm supposed to visit the National Gallery of Arts but my phone just died and I'm kinda useless at finding a place without Google Maps. » She shows him the phone. The screen is black. « Do you know like, how I can go there? The Gallery of Arts. »

He has no idea. How is he supposed to have an idea? He's starting to know this city, now, because he's walked so much, but he doesn't know the names – fuck, sometimes, when he doesn't think about it for too long, he even forgets the name of this goddamn city « Sorry, » he says. His voice is rusted from how long he hasn't used it, and he has to cough and repeat what he said because he's not sure anyone could hear that. « 'm sorry, » he says again. « I don't know. I'm not from here either. »

« Great, so we're both lost, » the girl says, but she doesn't seem mad or anything. « Guess I could ask someone else, or find a Starbucks and load my phone there. Starbucks sounds better, actually, because I'm gonna need this shit at some point anyway, and because I want a drink. » She puts the phone in her pocket. « Wanna come with me? »

« What? » he asks.

« Well, you seem as lost as I am and I could use some company. I have to meet a friend at six, that makes like seven hours left – I wouldn't know the exact amount of time since my phone's deceased but you get me. It's less fun when you're alone. »

That's new. Nobody's been talking to him in four days. Probably because he smells like shit and looks either like a homeless person – which he is – or a murderer – which he is, too. Despite not having a pocket mirror in his backpack, he's seen himself a few times in windows and glass doors and it isn't really nice to look at. The girl looks nice and she probably is, if she went past the murderous homeless look. He's never been in a Starbucks but he's walked past some – he even entered one, just because it smelled so good, but he couldn't steal anything at the counter without anybody noticing – no matter how much of a good spy he used to be, breaking a glass in a queue of fifteen people and taking whatever is behind it isn't something you do discretely. « Sure, » he says. And then he regrets instantly. He shouldn't trust the girl, because if she talks to him she may have something on him, and she may look too young and too small to do any harm but first, he somehow knows that you should never assume someone's strenght by the way they look, and second, she could have back up. Criminal organisations send young girls to offer their targets coffee all the time.

He can't help but tell himself how much the girl _doesn't_ look like she would be part of some shit like that at all. That's exactly why he shouldn't trust her, but he follows her when she says « Cool. » And then, « We can just walk until we find one. » He tells himself that even if she's armed, even if she has backup, he could just beat the crap out of each of them, run away and find somewhere else to hide. Nothing new. « Never been there, but it must be like New York. I mean, I don't know if you've ever been to New York but there's litteraly a Starbucks in every fucking street. Sick. »

Maybe he's been to New York, for a mission, once, but he doesn't remember. Maybe he's from New York. Bucky Barnes was from New York. « I've never been there, » he says.

They barely have to walk ten minutes before the Starbucks thing. The girl is talking about what she wants to eat and drink. She hesitates between two types of drinks he doesn't even understand the name. « What are you taking? » she asks.

He realizes something. « I don't have money, » he says.

She smiles. « That, I figured. » And then she repeats « What are you taking? »

He looks at her, then at the card, then at the showcase, then at her again. « I don't know. Whatever you think's good. »

He lets her take the order, and she tells him he can already go and find a sit. He does what she says. He doesn't know why he does what she says. Maybe because she didn't tell him orders, she didn't tell him to ride until he finds the people he's supposed to shot, she didn't tell him to wait on a roof for three days straight until the targets show up, she didn't tell him to sit and wait until they fuck his brains up –

« Here you are, » she says while putting the plate onto the table. She takes one of the two cups and puts it in front of him, and does the same with a weird looking sandwich and a pastry. « I took an Iced Caramel Macchiato because I would die for that shit but I figured you were cold so I took the same thing for you but like, warm. Also a pretzel, because you must be hungry. » He has no idea what she's talking about. « Plus a cinnamon roll and a blueberry muffin that we can share, if you don't mind. »

« I don't mind. » He takes a sip in his cup. He burns his tongue, but it tastes sweet.

« Wait a little bit. » The girl splits his pastry in half with her fingers. Her nails are painted a deep shade purple. « Jeez, how long is it been since you've had a coffee? Or some proper food? » The muffin is harder to split up, apparently.

« A while, » he says.

« Eat, then. » She points at the weird sandwich. He takes a bite. It tastes better than the ones he bought and stole in supermarkets. « What's your name? » She takes a cable from her backpack and puts one of the extremities in a hole on her phone, and the other in the ones on the wall.

He didn't think about that. The name. « James, » he says without thinking. _Shit_. He shouldn't. James was _his_ name. He shouldn't. He shouldn't. He shouldn't take his name. It was _his_ name.

« James, » she repeats. The screen of her phone glows. She seems happy about it. She takes one of the halves of the muffin she tried to cut properly, but looks like a disaster. « I'm Darcy. Nice to meet you. » She's got crumbs on her chin. « So, » Darcy says. « Tell me about you. »

 _I was brainwashed for seventy years by a criminal organisation who used me to shoot people – or strangle them, or stab them in the chest, or in the neck, or in the back. I had to watch the blood drip out of their skin, their breath quit their bodies. I killed and killed and killed, took hundreds of lifes without even questionning it. I think I used to be someone. I shouldn't use his name._ « There's nothing much to know 'bout me. » He takes a bite in the weird sandwich. He tries not to think about the people and the snow and the blood.

« I don't believe that, » Darcy says. « You look like someone who's got a story. »

Maybe he's got a story. He doesn't remember. He doesn't want to remember. It's not even that part of the story he fears – it's not even the people, the snow and the blood. It's not even the electroshocks, the freezing, the training. That, he can endure. « Can we not talk about that ? » He doesn't want to think about before.

« Yeah. Oh, gosh, totally, don't worry. Sorry if I crossed a line. Didn't want you to feel uncomfortable or something. » Darcy is looking at some things on her phone while drinking her frozen thing. He tastes his own, more carefully this time, but it doesn't burn anymore, so it's good. It's good.

« No, » he says. « It's me. Sorry. What about you? »

« You ask because you care or because you want to be polite? »

« I don't know, » he says, and he means it.

Darcy smiles. « I live in New Mexico. » She puts the phone on the table again, and she seems to realize that it's a little bit too hot because she suddenly decides to remove both her jacket and her sweater. There's a frog drawn on her shirt. « Which can be kinda cool, I guess, unless you're a scientist and have to live in a small drawn out city because it's closer to the lab, if you can call that a lab. I shouldn't complain, because I love my job, and my co-workers. Plus, sick shit has been happening these times. You don't have the time to get bored. » Her smile looks half sad. She drinks the frozen thing from the straw. « Remember what happened in 2012? The aliens, the Avengers and shit. »

 _2012_. « Yeah, » he says. He's lying. He's no idea of what she's talking about.

« Well, see the big guy from the sky with his giant hammer? The first time he got on our dear Planet Earth, my friend Jane ran into him with the car. And I tased him. And then Jane and him somehow got together, then didn't see each other for years, then parted again. But to be fair, their relationship is like the least interesting to talk about when it comes to this, because this guy brought so much weirder stuff – I mean, there was this freaking thing that turned everything into dark matter, who cares about Jane's flirt with the fucking king of Asgard. »

Every word she says is from another world, from outerspace, from another time. He wonders if Bucky Barnes used to think this is what the future looks like. « Sounds crazy. »

« It was, believe me. To be honest, I feel like we don't even need the help of the aliens to fuck things up, here. You've heard about what happened in this town? »

He freezes. « Yes. » This time, he isn't lying. This time, he knows.

He sees Roger's face, again.

Rogers, who said he knew him.

Rogers, who wouldn't punch back.

Rogers, falling in the water.

« Maybe not the best time to take a holiday in D.C, » Darcy says. « Couldn't afford another ticket, though. I had planned this trip months ago. »

Rogers, back in time, small and skinny and stubborn.

Rogers and his damn eyes he knows, but doesn't know _why_ or how.

« Thanks, » he says. It doens't have anything to do with what she was talking about but that must be something he should say. So he does. « For the food. And the drink. It's kind of you. »

She smiles.

Not everyone wants to kill him. That doesn't mean he is safe, but that at least means that he is sometimes. To be honest, even if Darcy got a gun out of her bag and pointed it at him, even if she stabbed him with an Extrema Ratio knife, he wouldn't even bother to care. At least, if his life would be cut short and he wouldn't have to have to remember anything.

« Hey, James. » He lifts his head up. Darcy's holding her phone in both of her hands. « Smile. »

He doesn't think, and smiles.

 

*

 

 **@darcykirkkk** 's photo on Instagram: found this lost puppy in #washingtondc and am now having #starbucks with him. look how cute

**76 people like that**

**@janefoster** Are you serious you did it again? We talked about this, Darcy

 **@darcykirkkk** you can talk how's your alien-god of a boyfriend

 **@janefoster** You stop now.

 **@darcykirkkk** when's your next holiday in MOTHERFUCKING ASGARD

 **@janefoster** I'm leaving.

 

*

 

He doesn't puke this time.

Darcy asks him if he wants to go to the National Gallery of Arts. He says he has no money. She says it's not a problem. He wonders if she's very rich, or just very kind.

Rich or not, she's kind, anyway.

People are giving them weird looks, because he looks and smells like he's been living on the streets forever, but Darcy doesn't care. She points at stuff she finds cool.

She buys him another coffee when they're finished visiting. She talks a lot and he doesn't, but she doesn't care. So it's ok.

It's ok.

 

*

 

« It's gonna be six. My friend is gonna come and pick me up soon. » Darcy puts her phone in the pocket of her coat, and her hand stays there, because it's cold. They're sitting on the stairs, and he's still drinking his coffee. It's getting colder, not that it was really warm before. He's used to colder. At least, that makes some excuse to wear gloves and long sleeves. He wonders if Darcy would freak out, if she saw under, but she doesn't have to see. « I should ask her to bring you home with us, » Darcy says.

She's gonna get him killed. She spent a little bit of time with him so he wouldn't worry about it more, but she's gonna get him killed. If she isn't an assassin, her friend – or whoever she's waiting for, probably is. He doesn't care. He can die, he doesn't care. If they want to take him and torture him, if they want to make him back who they made him, he'll take whatever gun they aim at him and he'll shot himself in the head. « I don't think it's a good idea. »

He should do that with his own gun. He should bang his brain out, stop the noise. He should.

Suicide would be a more peaceful death that anyone would wish for him.

« Why ? » Darcy looks surprised, as if she was sure he was going to say yes. « No offense, but you look like you've been sleeping outside for way too long. »

« I haven't been sleeping very much lately. » And four days without a single hour of proper rest is a long time, even for him. His muscles are beginning to feel sore, his feet hurt, his head spins. He's been repressing the thought of it for too long, maybe, but now what he thinks about it, he feels like he's gonna fucking faint, right here, right now.

« Well, that's one more reason. » She's got a point. He could use some sleep. He should lay on a bench and wait for someone to strangle him, with his eyes closed and his breath quiet. It would be a better death all the people he killed would have wished for him. « Plus, you should really take a shower. Again, no offense, but you stink, man. »

He doesn't remember what a real shower feels like. He doesn't remember the texture of bedsheets, or what a pillow does feel under your head. He didn't even remember what food tasted like before trying some – and puking it. Who knows what kind of shit they've been feeding him. « Maybe I should, yeah, » he says, only half meaning it. The truth is, he wants to. He wants a shower and bedsheets and another real meal. He doesn't know if he can bear being anything else that the cold robot they made him. He doesn't know if he can bear life, and humanity. He doesn't know if he can bear Bucky Barnes.

« Good, » Darcy says, getting up. « Because she's coming. Adriane! » A girl turns her head towards them – then she smiles, waves at Darcy, and walks in their directions. She's tall, and her hair is long, and her skin is a little bit darker than his. Darcy hugs her. « Gosh, your hair is even more majestic that the last time I saw you. »

« How're you doing ? » The girl – Adriane, asks. « Crap, it's been a while. We should facetime sometimes. I forget this shit exist. Technology is crazy. » He can relate to that. He still doesn't know if metal limbs are a thing, though. « We can talk when we're at my place, if you want. »

« Ain't gonna say no to that, » Darcy says. « It's not exactly warm, not to say my ass is fucking freezing. »

« Let's go, then, » Adriane says.

« Wait, » Darcy says. She looks at him, then at her friend, again. Adriane seems to get the hint, but doesn't say anything ; is this some habit of Darcy's? Is she used to take homeless people in her – and her friends places? Is that her version of sheltering stray dogs? « Can we take him? » Darcy points at him. He feels like a kid. Like a dog. « Just a night or two. He hasn't slept in ages. »

He expects Adriane to get mad, to say no, to yell maybe, to sigh at least, but she doesn't do any of that. Her glance on him is quiet, and neutral, even though she's probably trying to read through him, trying to figure out if she can trust him or not, and the answer is no. « Yeah, » Adriane says, because apparently, she doesn't think so. Shit, is he really going to her place? He wants to, but he didn't consider the option that he would actually go. What is he going to do? He has to hide the arm. The scars. The gun. He has to hide, hide, hide. This is not a good idea. He can't go to people's places. « You have to take a shower as soon as we get there, though. No offense. »

« Yeah, already told him that. » And Darcy smiles, and Adriane puts her hands back in her pockets, like it was nothing. This is not a good idea.

« This is not a good idea, » he says. _He should kill himself_.

« Come on, man, » Darcy says, rolling her eyes. « Do it for me. I like you. »

He follows them to Adriane's place.

He doesn't know why.

He doesn't know.

 

*

 

The water is warm.

He hasn't been warm in decades. It was just the cold of the snow and the bite of the wind. The hot days weren't warm – they were heavy, and everything felt dry except for the sweat he learned not to feel under his clothes and on his temples. This wasn't warm – he didn't remember _warm_. But the water is warm.

The water is warm.

It runs in small drops over his shoulders, his back, his arms. It draws tears on scars he didn't even know he had – a stab just under his stomach, a bullet in his left shoulder, several cuts on his legs and arms. When he runs his flesh hand on his back, he feels stabs and bullets and cuts altogether.

He cries for the first time in days. He cries for the first time in years.

His tears are frozen.

The water is warm.

 

*

 

Bucky's fifteen years old and some other day during winter, he comes back home with snow in his hair, his coat, his mouth, on his nose, his eyelashes, his lips. Steve has got snow on him, but he couldn't risk smashing a pile on his face just to prove he was tough, because he isn't. Bucky is, or pretends he is – he's starting to regret, because he's shivering now.

« You shouldn't have done that. » There's worry in Steve's voice. Worry, and the beginning of a cold that may not leave him for days. « Dumbass. »

« Man, I don't get sick, like, ever. » And Bucky's trying to sound badass and solid and stuff, but even his voice is trembling and honestly, he isn't fooling anyone. Let alone Steve. « Stop acting like you were my ma' or something. » Bucky gets out of his coat. It's dripping everywhere on the floor, and it's only going to get worse. Steve isn't his ma', but oh, his ma's gonna kill him.

« Only if you stop acting like a _dumbass_. » Steve's pissed, but fake pissed. Bucky can hear his smile behind the sigh.

Bucky takes off his boots while Steve does the same. Cold water everywhere, again. His ma's really gonna kill him. He hopes they can clean all this up before she comes back from her friend's Dolly's dinner, but right now, his fingers are so cold he doesn't even feel them anymore, and he wants a shower. « Ok, _mom_ , » he says with a grin on his face. « Now if you're finished with grounding me, we can get out of our pants and take a shower, because I'm very scared you're gonna die if you don't warm up very soon. »

They're used to take showers together since they've become friends, because water's less expensive when you take one instead of two. A matter of money – they don't stay long, and they stay close.

They stay longer during winter, though, because Steve gets sick so quick. They stay longer, but they still stay close. And Steve protests and says it's ok and he's not gonna get ill, this time, and even if he does, that's not a big deal, but Bucky doesn't trust his small body and his poor lungs to handle very much. He keeps him close, rubbing his shoulders and his back with soap and water, hoping that Steve's bones will eventually stop shaking.

And the water is warm.

 

*

 

He cries and cries and cries.

 

*

 

Adriane left some clothes for him to use, in the bathroom. She said they could be a little bit too small, because her boyfriend isn't exactly as tall and large as him, but surprisingly, it fits. The top is a thick, dark material, and has long sleeves, which is good for the arm. You obviously still can see the hand, though, and he doesn't know if he can show them yet. He takes one of the gloves he threw on the floor and puts it on.

Later, Darcy asks « Do you mind me asking what happened to your hand? » He searches for answers, but Darcy cuts him before he can even think about a thing to say. « 'm sorry. You don't have to answer if you don't want to. » She does seem sorry. He appreciates that.

He doesn't answer.

Adriane lets him the couch and a blanket and tells him if he even only thinks about stealing something and going away, she'll find him and she'll cut him. Then Darcy and her go in her room, because Darcy says he needs sleep. He appreciates that, too. He sleeps.

He sleeps.

 

*

 

There's a woman lying in the snow.

Her blonde hair looks almost white, because it's covered in snowlfakes. Her skin is white, too, because she's almost dead. The snow is red because of the slit in her throat, and slowly, as she's gasping for breath, trying to catch some air through the hemoglobin in her mouth, her blonde, white hair becomes red, too. She spits out some blood when she tries to say something. « I-is – that... is that – you ? » Her lips look like she's put some fancy make-up on, except she didn't. « B-Bucky, is tha... ou ? »

He shoots her, right in the middle of the head. She stops gasping, spitting, breathing. And now her skin is red too. Red slot on her neck. Red hole in her skull. Red thin streams running on her nose, her eyelids, her cheeks, her mouth. Red. Red. Red.

Red.

When he wakes up, he still has blood stains under his eyelids and the taste of vomit in the back of his throat. The woman is not here anymore, and there is no snow, even if the ceiling and the walls are white. But there's no red anymore. He's trying to catch his breath, exhaling and inhaling loud, like a crying child, like a wounded animal, like the woman in the snow. This isn't worse, he thinks. This isn't worse than the rest. He can handle that. He can handle these memories. That's not what hurts the most. The smell of food he – _no, not him_ – used to eat and the feeling of the warm water on his back while he – _nothimnothimnothim –_ is standing in the shower with the small blonde boy hurts more. That, he can't. That, he doesn't deserve. He tries hard, so hard not to think about Bucky Barnes, he can't think about him, because who is he to feel what he used to feel? He doesn't deserve these, he doesn't deserve anything. Bucky Barnes was someone, he's _nothing_. He deserves the blood. He deserves the gunshots. He deserves the _pain_.

He finds his breath in his memories, though – Bucky Barnes' memories. As much as he tries pushing it away, comes back the image of the small blonde boy with the blue eyes and the crooked nose, comes back Rogers, but not quite the Rogers he knows yet, and he can't help it and he wants to vomit but he can breathe, because the blue eyes and the crooked nose feel like home. He has no right. He has no right. He's nothing. He's breathing.

He opens his eyes, and Roger's face goes away. He's got his face stuck betwenn his knees – he didn't realize he had gotten up. His left hand is shaking, but a little bit less than two minutes ago, maybe. Still, he tries to steady the thing with his other hand, the one that isn't shaking, the metal one. He's breathing.

The woman in the snow is not here anymore, the small blonde boy has disappeared. Now it's only him, and the white ceiling and the white walls, the wooden floor, the grey couch. He's breathing. He's breathing.

« Oh, hey. » He almost jumps, almost bends over to take the gun in the backpack he put under the couch. But before doing any of this, he turns his head around and sees Adriane's face, and yeah, he's at her place. He's safe, he thinks. « I didn't think you'd be up so early. Did I wake you or something? » She doesn't seem to have noticed she scared the shit out of him, or she doesn't care.

« No. » He doesn't know how much he slept, but except for the woman in the snow, he assumes he must have had a _real_ night. As real as anything can feel, at least. His head isn't spinning anymore. He can keep his eyes fully open.

« No, I just woke up. » His muscle are still aching, but they have been for ages.

« Good. Slept well? » He nods. Hopefully she can't read nightmares on his face. « Good. »

« What time is it? »

« 'bout seven. » Is seven early, or late? « That's why I said I was surprised you were already awake. Darcy said you didn't have a full night of sleep in a long time, so I thought you were just gonna sleep all day, you know. » He wishes he could do that. He wishes he could sleep forever. « You can still sleep, by the way. Take some naps. Make yourself comfortable. »

« No, it's ok. » He doesn't know if he can face them again, for know – the woman in the snow, the small blonde boy, two different things that scare the crap ouf of him. He'll have to, at some point, because he can't keep his eyes open forever, but not now. Not now. « I slept fine. Thank you for the couch. »

« No prob, man. » She takes out a cigarette from the pack she's holding. Her nails are short but painted black, and her arms are both covered in bracelets that cling into each other when she moves. There are red marks on her skin, because she probably fell aslept with them, and now the patterns cover her wrists and the place just under the inside of her elbows like weird tattoos. « Want a cig? »

 _The air smells like cheap smoke and fruits_. « Sure. » He doesn't know how he's gonna handle that, because he doesn't know if he's ever smoked anything. Maybe he did, but maybe it will do the same thing that it did with food, because it's been too long. Not sure you can vomit smoke, though.

He gets up while Adriane opens that large window-door that leads to the balcony. He hadn't even noticed the flat had a balcony. He puts on the shirt she gave him yesterday. Outside, he sees Adriane shivering once or twice because of the cold air and the wind, while she lights on a cigarette. « Here you are, » she tells him while handing it to him before lighting another one for herself.

The first puff doesn't even feel weird, and that's what's weird. It's dry in his throat, and it burns, and it feels good. Adriane seems to be more used to it than he is, though ; she breathes in like it was just air, puts the cig between her lips every once in a while without even thinking about it while it's new for him, while he's still trying to figure out if he should finish it all at once or wait a certain amout of seconds before inhaling. Adriane bends around the short wall, and for a moment he's scared she's gonna fall, but of course she's not. She's used to this, too. Maybe he would fall, so he doesn't bend. He just looks at her, and then at the city. _Washington_. He's in Washington, right. Washington. He should write that down, for when he wakes up with snow and blood in his eyes, for when he doesn't remember. Washington. Washington looks grey. Washington looks sad. « Why do you do this ? » The question crosses his mouth before he takes the time to think about it.

« What? » Adriane has long lashes, and freckles on her brown skin, and a ring in her nostril. Her nose is a little bit crooked, from that point of view. « Smoking? »

Shit. Why did he talk? He's better at staying silent. « No, » he says. He smokes a little bit too fast, and it burns, but it's ok. It's ok. « Letting me sleep here. »

Her eyebrows raise. « Oh, » she says. « Well, you didn't steal anything and you stayed, so. » There's some silence, and then she says : « I don't know. Darcy asked, and I trust her, and you indeed looked like you could use some rest. I didn't think about it very much. » The light wind makes the smoke come back to her when she exhales. « As I said, you didn't steal anything, so I guess I can trust you too. » She holds the cig between her teeth and lifts her arms, tying her hair up. She doesn't want to smell like smoke. « Can I trust you? »

Good question. He can't even trust himself. His own mind is fooling him, showing him some memories that aren't his, and some he wishes weren't. _Can I trust you?_ « I don't know, » he says, and it seems like it's his answer to anything, but he can't really do better than that.

« Cool, » Adriane says.

They finish their smoke in silence. He could get used to life, if it always was that easy. If he wasn't afraid to close his eyes, or to open them, if he wasn't scared of the others, and of himself. « Can you help me make breakfast? » Adriane asks when they get back inside. Her voice is quiet, almost a whisper, and he remembers Darcy's probably still sleeping.

« Not sure I know how to do that, » he says.

« Well, I'll show you. » Adriane gets some things out of the wooden shelves. Her bracelets make some noise when she moves. There are some tickets and pictures and drawings hanging on the fridge door. For some reason, the grey of this morning reminds him of warmer lights, and he doesn't know why. _And the air smells like cheap smoke and fruits_. « Oh, just like, one thing, » Adriane says. « I won't say anything about it because I guess you don't really want someone to bring the subject on, but you should like, put your glove on. » Bucky looks at his hand. The left one. The metal one. His eyes widen. His breath stops somewhere into his chest. She saw the hand. Adriane saw the hand. « Hey, chill out. I don't mind. Told you, I'm not gonna ask you about it. » So, metal limbs are a common thing, then. It is a common thing for people like _him_ , whatever the fuck he is. « But Darcy's curious, and you know, I don't think she would ever mean to sound rude but sometimes, she can tick where it hurts without even noticing it. I know she already asked about it, and she won't do it again if you keep the glove on, but I'm not sure of how she would react to the whole metal thing. » It's not a common thing. He's weird. He's a monster. He's weird. « Man, really, chill out. Nobody's gonna like – hate you for that, ok, I don't even want to know where you got that shit because that must be some awful story and I don't want to be the one that brings that back, except if you actually want to talk about it. I just don't want like, weird stares on you to happen and make you anxious. Like you are right now. » She doesn't care.

Adriane doesn't care.

Bucky goes back in the living room, and finds his glove. He decides he likes Adriane.

 

*

 

Darcy wakes up just in time, because they're done making pancakes. « God, that tastes like fucking heaven, » she says when she takes the first bite.

« Thanks, » Adriane says. She's eating, too, but she's still standing up, leaning against the counter, a plate in her hand and a fork in the other, because there are only two chairs at that table and she's too hungry to move and go get another one from her room. « Your friend helped, » she says.

That's a big word. He barely handed her some ustensils. « Not really, » he says. He still enjoys the food, though. Darcy smiles.

She doesn't see his arm. She doesn't have to.

 

*

 

In the notebook, he writes: _Washington D.C., United States of America_. So the next time he wakes up from snow and blood and corpses, he doesn't forget where he is for too long.

 

*

 

The first days with Darcy and Adriane go well. So well he almost forgets the rest, sometimes. Almost. _Almost_.

They go out a lot.

They go to the grocery store, actually paying for the food that time. He doesn't pay anything, because he couldn't live on the ten bucks he's found in the jacket he stole forever ; they say it's ok. He doesn't know why. They buy stuff he's never heard seen ; weird vegetables and milkless milk and meatless meat, because Adriane doesn't eat anything that comes from animals, apparently. He didn't even know that existed. When Adriane makes them something with the weird vegetables and the meatless meat, though, he adores it. She cooks loads, and he's not always hungry because he's used to less than that, but he learns. Darcy laughs when they eat ; they say he always looks like he's tasting everything for the first time. He is.

They go to a charity shop, too. Adriane said she was ok giving him her boyfriend's clothes, but that having his own stuff could be better. He says he doesn't have money, again – they say it's ok, again. Adriane pays for everything. She asks him about what he likes wearing but he doesn't care, he doesn't know. She buys three plaid shirts, four tees, three jeans and two jumpers. She says it's ok, because it's a _charity_ shop, and it's nothing. Darcy buys a black and white stripped sweater and a t-shirt with little dogs on it. She tells him he can borrow it if he likes it. He laughs.

It's the first time he laughs.

Most of the time, he leaves them alone. He goes out when they're at the flat, and he stays there when they're out. Somehow, he knows that he doesn't want to bother, and they look like they're good friends ; who is he to invade their lives?

One day, when Darcy's in the shower and they're making breakfast, again, he asks : « Why do you do this? »

Adriane says : « What ? »

And he says : « Helping me. Keeping me around. Buying me stuff. »

Adriane brushes her long hair with her fingers – it tangles into her rings. « You already asked me that once. »

That's true. He didn't forget that. He doesn't forget a lot, now, except when he's just woke up from snow, blood and corpses. « I know, » he says. « It's been four days. You don't have to. »

« That's right, » Adriane says. She's pealing a banana to put it into the blender with the rest. « But I do it. » That could have been enough to him, honestly. He's used to Adriane's short answers, he's used to her saying more with a few words than she would have with longer sentences. But she keeps going. « I mean, I'm not saying that I'm gonna keep you forever. I have a little bit of money – that's why I don't mind like, buying stuff for you. But I can't like – keep doing that, but I don't want to put you back in the streets and not know if you're still alive or not because the papers won't even mention you dying. »

« I'm not gonna die, » he says, but he's lying, because he doesn't know. He can go back to the streets, that's not a problem, even if it's definitely better here. He's not afraid of the streets. Himself, though, how is he afraid of himself.

The fruit falls into the recipient in small pieces, over multi-colored berries. « I don't want to be responsible of that, » she says.

« You won't, » he says. « You've helped a lot. That's the only thing you can blame yourself on. Helping. Not the worst of sins. » Adriane smiles. They don't say anything for a few minutes, because she's blending the fruits and it's making a lot of noise, and then she fills pretty bowls with fruits, blended or not, nuts and grains. The light in the flat isn't grey, today. It reminds him of warmer days. « I think I'm gonna leave tomorrow. » He'll find a way.

Adriane looks at him. Not surprised, but not relaxed, either. « Why ? » Because they've already done so, so much. Because they see him as someone, but he isn't a person, he's not real and he doesn't know if he wants to be. He can't stay too much. He's gonna break himself, he's gonna break them, he's gonna break everything. That's all he's good at. Breaking, breaking, breaking.

« I have to, » he says, because he knows Adriane won't ask for more than that.

She doesn't. « Ok, » she says. « Please don't die. And come back if you need. Sometimes. » He nods. They eat their mashed fruit thing when Darcy gets out of the shower.

 _And the air smells like cheap smoke and fruits_.

 

*

 

In the notebook, he writes : _good people,_ as a headline.

Then he writes : _Darcy_. He writes : _Adriane_.

 

*

 

« Send me something when you can get a phone or a computer from someone, » Darcy says. She's wearing her new t-shirt, with the little dogs on it. He hands her his notebook, so she can write down whatever she wants to. He hopes she doesn't see the other pages. She doesn't. « Here's my number. And I'm Darcy Kirk on Facebook. If you want to check it out. My profile picture is me eating Nutella from the jar. » He promises himself he'll check when he can. He promises Darcy he'll talk to her, when he can. She hugs him. It feels weird, but he hugs her back. She doesn't seem to notice the harshness of the metal behind her back. « You don't smell that bad, » she says. « Take care of yourself. »

When he's about to say goodbye to Adriane, too, she hands him an envelope and a pack of cigarettes with a lighter. « There are fifty bucks in that, » she says, pointing at the envelope. « Don't ask me why I do this, » she says before he can ask anything. « That's nothing, and definitely not enough for you to actually live decently, but it will keep you fed for a while. » Adriane said she had money. Are fifty bucks a lot? « Take care of yourself. » When they hug, Adriane surely notices it, the harshness of the metal. But she doesn't say anything.

They hug, and then he's outside.

 

*

 

Bucky's seventeen years old and laying in his sister's Rebecca's bed. She's in the bed too, Becca, but they're upside down. In the corner of his eye, he can see her knitted yellow socks. It's winter, again, but they're warm. It's sunday, and they've been wandering about the house since they're up. It's Charlie and Maggie's turn to do the dishes, so they can enjoy being lazy. You rarely have the opportunity to do that in a middle-class family with four children.

« I didn't say I liked him, » Becca says. « I just said he liked me. »

Bucky giggles. « The fact you're telling me that proves that you actually like him. »

Rebecca sighs. « It's not like – I don't think I want a real relationship with someone anyway. It's not serious. »

He's been counting the fans on the ceiling, but now he's just looking for figures and drawings in them. « You don't have to freaking marry someone to actually fancy them, y'know. » There's a cat. There's a moon. There's a house. « Don't think anyone would want to marry your stupid ass anyway. »

He gets a kick in the face. The angle is weird because they're laying down and Becca doesn't see anything from her position, but he still feels the bone of her foot clashing with his cheek. He still laughs, though. « You can talk, » Becca says, trying to sound bitter, but he knows she's not. « Your longest relationship lasted like, two months. »

« Never said someone would want to marry _my_ stupid ass, » Bucky says, and Becca chuckles.

« I'm sure all of these girls would actually have said yes if you had proposed. »

« Don't be dingy. I'm not the kind of guy you want as a husband. »

« Well, since you're my brother, I have to agree or this would get really weird. But I mean. Other ladies. » Now Bucky kicks her in the face. She tells him to slop, but she's laughing. He's laughing. « I mean, you're quite good looking, you have these nice blue eyes chicks dream about, and you look quite though. That's everything a girl wants from her man, these days. Don't worry about it too much. »

Bucky gets on his elbows. « I'm the big brother. I'm supposed to reassure you, not like, the contrary. »

She always does that, Becca. Being the mature one in their relationship. Maybe it's because she's a lady that she's more on the thinking side, but that's not even a thing all ladies tend to do. You don't want a dame to be smart – a little bit, sure, but not smarter than you. Bucky doesn't always date stupid girls, and even for the ones that weren't the brightest lights, he strongly believes that they were pretending, because he knows girls can be smart. He gets angry at Maggie and Charlie sometimes, when they pretend to be dumber than they are. Becca doesn't do that ; Becca knows she's smart, and she won't hide. She's smarter than any girl he's ever fancied, and for God's sake, she's only fifteen. He's proud of her for wanting to be better than most people would wish for her ; so proud of her, but Christ, it's scary. The world's gonna swallow her whole. « How's your girlfriend anyway ? » Becca asks.

« She's fine, » he says.

« What's her name again? » She says.

« Annie, » he says.

« Annie, » she repeats. « She looks nice. »

Annie's pretty. Annie's got green eyes and nice blonde hair that make other ladies jaleous. She speaks italian, and she's learning french. She likes to learn things. And she's kind. She buys fancy lipstick and pretty outfits with the money her parents give her for special occasions. She was wearing a dark red dress on their first date, and her lips and cheeks were red, too, when he kissed her. Annie's pretty. She's pretty. « She is. » He could marry her, Annie. As he could have married Barbara and Mary and Virginia, but maybe it was too early to think about it. They were young. They're still young. But when you get a girl home, when you're seventeen, it gets serious. He could marry Annie ; not now, maybe, but in a year or two. But she's not gonna last long, either. He doesn't know why, but he knows it's gonna happen. He can't keep one thing. Can't keep one thing. And somewhere, in the back of his head, he tells himself he can lose everything and everyone as long as he has Steve.

The world's gonna swallow him, too. He doesn't know if he can ever get up.

 

*

 

He avoids taking big streets as much as he can, only does when he has to, to reach a place, or to buy food, or during the night. And still, Washington D.C. sleeps late. It's not like he had a watch to check the hour and make a real estimation. But the night falls and people are still there for long.

He knows it's very late when the big streets are empty. There are always noises of people living during the night, of cars passing by, honking, sometimes, and he jumps everytime. When the noise is short, sudden, a surprise, it feels like an alarm, a signal, it feels like he has to take out the gun and shoot, shoot, shoot everything and everyone. When they honk for too long, it feels like when he had thunder injected in his head and some piece of plastic between his teeth, when even his own screams couldn't muffle the never ending sound of pain invading his brain. He doesn't know what is worse.

Besides the honks, there are the cats and dogs. You never really see them during the day, because, like him, they don't like the big streets when there are too many people. The cats run away. The dogs sometimes follow him.

Besides the cats and dogs, there are tramps. People living there, laying down on cardboards, keeping the very few bucks they have hidden inside their coats while they sleep, falling when the streets finally get empty and waking up as soon as the city begins to work again. He'd probably be like that, too, if he wasn't what he is. He couldn't stay awake for that long, he couldn't stay up on his feet not eating, he'd have to sleep on cardboards and collect coins. Maybe he wouldn't even be in the streets, small or big, empty or full, if he wasn't what he is.

While walking through a big street, he sees a blinking signboard reading “NIGHTSHOP”. He finds sandwiches, and even though that's basically all that he eats, it keeps him full, so he doesn't have to think about nourishing himself for a while, afterwards. Most of the time, everything tastes the same – he misses Adriane's kitchen, often, but he tries not to think about it.

« Hey, young man ! » He jumps again. It's exhausting, feeling a _bang_ in your chest everytime you hear something.

When he turns around, he sees a man sitting on the pavement – on cardboards. He's got more beard than he does – Adriane got him a razor when he stayed there, a grey beanie on his head, and there are red and blue stripes on the cover he's wrapped in. He can see that because of the crappy street lamp light.

« Got a lil' bit to share? » He's pointing at the sandwich, dirty fingernails from mittens covered hands. His teeth look rotten. Adriane also got him a toothbrush and some toothpaste, when he stayed there. He still has them. Still uses them, in the little streets, with a little bit of water he's bought. Not that it changes anything to the fact that he's dirty, and it still feels gross and sticky under the shirts he doesn't bother to wash – not that he really can use a lavatory without spending all the money, and that's not enough of a priority. But as Darcy said, at least, his teeth won't rot. “You can stink if you want,” she said, “but I don't want your smile to be full of holes”. The guy's smile must be full of holes. He looks at his sandwich. He splits about the third of it. He still has money anyway. And then he'll steal. And then he'll die. « Oh, thank you, buddy. » The man's smile is, indeed, full of holes. At least, he smiles. He bites into the bread and it looks like it's the best thing he's ever had in his mouth. « Nice boys like you remind me that rich folks ain't all bastards. »

« 'm not rich, » he says. It's the first time he hears his own voice since he left Adriane's flat – two, or three days, he doesn't remember. It comes out broken and weak, like a cough.

« Oh, y'know, for us, street people, you're rich if y'have a roof to sleep under and more money than what one or two guys with a conscience gave you during the day. »

« Still not rich, then. » He hasn't the roof and the money has been given by someone and isn't going to last very long.

« Oh, » the man says. « 'm sorry. Take it back. The food, I mean. Didn't mean to take you – thought you weren't like me. »

« No, » he says. « No, keep it. 's ok. »

The man looks at him for a little bit. « Y're a r'ly kind man, » he says. He's about to go, leave the man with his piece of sandwich and his cover, but the he hears, « y're still young, and y'still look like – good, y'know. Good, healthy. Y'have chances to get away. I hope you find your way, kid. Don't let time waste you. »

He's already walking away when he mutters a thank you, so low he's not sure the man can hear.

But time already wasted him.

 

*

 

He doesn't sleep for two nights, after leaving Adriane's flat, and he's still walking in the streets with one of the shirts Adriane bought for him and some food he hasn't stolen, this time. Something tells him he should have stayed, and for all that he knows, she wouldn't have said no. Something else tells him he's a fucking burden, and always will be, for everyone, that he doesn't deserve such kindness. Something like the voices of the ghosts he sees at night or sometimes when he sees a bright lightthat have been putting things in his veins and weapons in his arms, that left him to run in the snow, the blood, the corpses, that made him kill, kill, _kill_. They are ghosts. He's a ghost. He's no one.

It's ok, not to sleep, though. At least, the fucking poison they've put inside him helps him stay awake for longer, make his muscles more resistant, and if he's starting to get sore, and tired, it's not because of the sleep deprivation, because it's _only two nights_ _come on you can do better than that_ , but because of his head, and he can't, he can't, he can't, he's no one, he should kill himself, he should –

He bumps into something small, with his right leg. The something moves.

It's a cat.

It's a cat and it's black and white and small, now it's rubbing itself against his leg, mewling and purring and he doens't know what to do, what he is supposed to do. He squats, and the cat rubs himself against his jeans some more, puts its paw over his knee to lift itself up, searches for his hand – the flesh one – when he actually dares putting it in front of the cat's face. It doesn't seem to be bothered by the smell – he could shower as often as he wanted at Adriane's place, but three days in the street don't leave such a really nice scent.

The cat seems more interested in what's in his other hand – the gloved one. « You're hungry? » He almost expects an answer before remembering that cats don't fucking talk. He gets out the ham in his sandwich between his fingers and the cat gets excited. Cats eat meat. Cats must like ham. « There, there, » he says while the little thing eats all that it can in the palm of his hand. « 'm not gonna hurt you, » he says, even the cat isn't the most afraid to be hurt here.

He gets more and more ham out of his sandwich, until there's no more left. He'll have to eat bread with salad and weird sauce on it, but it's ok. He still has some of Adriane's money. He can use that. And then, he'll steal. He's used to it, it's not a big deal. It's ok. It's ok not to sleep, it's ok not to eat, it's ok to steal. It's ok to be a stray dog. It's not a big deal. It's ok.

The cat follows him for a while, when he gets out of this tiny street. It disappears when he gets to a bigger one, surrounded by people and cars.

 _Why do you stay alive_?

In his backpack, in his notebook, he still has a flyer with Captain America's face on it.

 

*

 

He falls asleep in another shitty street. Before closing his eyes, he sees another cat, and a dog, but maybe he's dreaming.

It would be easier, if his dreams were cats and dogs and dirty streets. He doesn't get that.

He gets snow, and gunshots, and screams.

 

*

 

He wakes up to a voice above his head and a hand on his shoulder. He opens his eyes wide, and again, he almost pulls out the gun from under his jacket – a reflex action. Next time, he should put the gun in the backpack, so he doesn't have time to find it, and they got time to kill him.

But nobody's ever here to kill him.

That's a shame.

The hand of the stranger is gentle. He barely feels it, until he realizes he doesn't feel anything, at all, because it's his left shoulder. « James? » James. He's James. That's what he tells to people, now. James. They know him. How do they know his name? _Shit_. He needs to calm down. _Kill me_ , he thinks. _Kill me, so I don't have to wonder, kill me when I'm still not awake enough to hit back._

He lifts his head up. He sees long hair and dark eyes and bracelets. « Shit, it's really you. I can't believe it's – shit, are you alright? Fuck, I shouldn't have let you – »

He's never seen Adriane so panicked. « I'm ok, » he says, more for himself than for her.

« What were we thinking, fuck – I should have tried to look up for a place instead of just letting you go, God, I'm so, so sorry, how could I – have you even been eating properly? You used the money I gave you? »

He breathes. It's Adriane. It's ok. « Yes, » he says. He tries to wipe away the cold he feels in his brain. It's ok. « I'm ok. »

« You come with me now, » she says, and she's trying to lift him up but he's too sore. « Sorry, shit, did I hurt you? Can you get up? »

Maybe he really looks bad. He feels bad, too, for breaking her walls and make her look like she's gonna cry. « Adriane, you can – calm down, ok? I'm fine. » It may become true, if he repeats it again and again and again, in his head and out loud.

He gets up. His legs and back hurts a little bit from the weird position he's been sleeping in, on the pavement, next to a trashcan a ton of dogs and cats and guys have pissed on, judging on the smell. But he knows it's gonna get better soon – he's never hurt for too long. At least the shit they've put inside him gives him that. It's ok. It's ok. « No, you're not. » Adriane's trying to breathe, too. « I should have kept you there until we find a solution – shit, I could have looked up for something, some place you could earn money or at least sleep and eat at. » She pulls her hair back ; her long, long hair. « You promised you wouldn't die. »

« I'm not dead. » He's been dead for seventy years.

« I regreted the second you passed the door. Darcy didn't want you to leave. She told me we should run after you and get you back, several times. »

He remembers Darcy's smiles and coffees, and the pitch of her voice when she got enthusiastic, and the frogs and little dogs on her shirts. « How's she? » He remembers Darcy. He remembers.

« Back in New Mexico, » Adriane says. She pulls out a pack of cigarettes – the same brand she gave him. She takes one. Lights it up, really quick. Nervous. She smells like tabacco, but he smells worse. « I'm gonna text her and say I found you. » She gets out her phone of her pocket, then, really quick, too. Nervous, nervous. He watches her black painted nails type something on the screen. And then Adriane looks at him. « Seriously. Come with me, ok? I can't to leave you like that. »

« You can't feel responsible for any person you see in the street, » he says. She's done enough good, and he's done enough bad. She deserves the quiet, and he deserves the nightmares.

« I can feel responsible for you. »

And again, he asks, « Why do you do this? »

He remembers Adriane's ripped jeans, and her falsely annoyed laugh when Darcy said something stupid, and the fruits and vegetables she likes to keep organized in her kitchen. « Shut up, » she says. He remembers Adriane. He remembers.

They're real. It's real. He remembers things, he remembers people, real people, and even if he isn't real, even if he's a ghost, it's real. Things exist, and he remember, and it's real. It's real.

There are tears on his cheeks.

He isn't crying, but there's water coming out of his eyes and there's salt on his lips but his jaw is clenched and his eyelids won't close, and he can't stop it. He isn't crying. « Oh, boy, » Adriane says, and then she takes him in her arms. « Come here. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. » He cries.

He cries.

 

*

 

Adriane takes him with her anyway. Darcy answered about five minutes after Adriane wrote her a message. She answered _five times_ ; about three being different formulations of “is he ok” in capital letters, and the two others being “shit” and “fuck”.

And then Adriane takes him with her to college. They come into the cafetaria and it's a little bit like in the museum, with Darcy. With less stares, though, because most people are busy talking with the others and there's noise, noise, noise. He hears someone saying something like “damn, what is it smelling so bad here?”, but they don't see him, and then they go away. « Don't worry, » Adriane says. « Most of students look more fucked up than you. » She reads his mind. He isn't crying anymore, but the tension in his shoulders and the heavy thing in this chest can probably be touched ; there are too many people, and too many looks, and too many noises. « I have to go to class, » she says. They're in the queue to order coffee. « I can take you with me, if you want. You can sleep if you want. It's like the less comfortable position you could get and the seats are too hard to actually relax, but everyone does that in the morning. » And it's just like before he collapsed in her arms a few minutes ago ; jaw clenched and eyes wide open. But he doesn't want to cry here. He can't cry. He can't cry, ever. He can't stay with her. She's done enough, she's done _so much_. « Or I can let you with one of my friends until I'm done. He doesn't go to all his classes and he's always sitting in the less populated corner he can find. Plus he's like, probably one of the best people I know. Besides Darcy. » She reads his mind, again.

« I don't know, » he says, his voice probably way too low for anybody to hear, but she seems to get it. He doesn't know him, the friend, and he doesn't know if he can. But he didn't know Darcy, and he didn't know Adriane. And now they care. He doesn't know if he can handle anyone else to _care_. « I don't want to be a burden. To anyone. » He can't.

« You're not, » she says. « He doesn't talk a lot. Well, he can be a hell of a talker, if he's in the mood, but he won't if you just want to rest. » And her eyes still say _please don't die_. There's something wicked in the way she cares about his life more than he does, something weird in the fact that she doesn't even know him, but she _cares_. He doesn't know himself _,_ but he doesn't want that person to be alive.

« I can just – » He has to breathe. « I can just stay alone, » he says.

 _Please don't die_ . « I'm sorry, » she says. « I don't want to force you and – you do what you want, ok? It's just that I'm scared that – » _Please don't die_. The waiter cuts her to take their order. Adriane's look gets on him, and then goes back to where it was again. « Herbal tea and a bun, is it ok? » He nods. She repeats that to the waiter. She doesn't take anything for herself except a coffee in a plastic cup.

« Ok, » he says. « I'll stay – with your friend. I'll wait for you. »

Something like relief shows up on her face. She cares. « Ok, » she says. « I'm gonna text him. » She cares.

After a few messages Adriane typed and got on her phone, in which, apparently, the Friend tell them – fast, so fast – where he is, and they get through the sea of people, him with his food and tea, and her with her plastic cup.

The Friend is, indeed, at the least crowded corner you can actually find in this place. Which means there are still a significant amount of people around, but at least, he's got a table for four for himself, some headphones over his beanie, moving his fingers across the keyboard of his computer that looks a little bit like Adriane and Darcy's. « Hello, » he says when he sees them. His voice sounds tired.

« Thank you for this, » Adriane says, pulling out a chair for him to sit on. He does. « I'll be back in two hours. I wouldn't have gone to class if I didn't have this assignment. »

« No prob, mate, » the Friend says. His voice is stucks somewhere between high and low, and there's an accent showing in some words he says that doesn't sound like his, or Adriane's, or Darcy's. « I'm staying here for a while, anyway. » The Friend looks at him, but he doesn't stare. He doesn't seem to be bothered by the smell, or the awful face he must have.

« Take care of yourself. And buy something else if you're still hungry. » She puts a hand on his shoulder. The left one, again. « Gotta go. See you later. » And then she goes.

« What's your name? » the Friend asks.

The Friend's got one ring on a finger, and three other ones piercing his ear. His headphones are now resting on his shoulders. « James, » he answers.

« Cool, » the Friend says. « I'm Jack. » People come and go into the room. There's still noise. « Don't worry, » the Friend – Jack, says. « Most of them are leaving now. There's only people around noon. I just stay here so I'm never out of coffee, and because the Wi-Fi's quicker. »

Jack looks like the kind of person who drinks too much coffee. He's got bags under his eyes and his hands seem to twitch time to time. « Cool, » he says.

« I have a book with me, » Jack says. « If you want to keep yourself busy. »

Keep himself busy. Sounds like a good idea. « Yeah. Ok. »

Jack doesn't talk after that, like Adriane said. He's perfectly ok with that.

He begins to read the book, and Jack puts his headphones back on, and keeps doing whatever he was doing before they arrived. He gets caught in the story of a teenage girl ending up in Hell. The girl talks about too much things he doesn't know, mentions movies he hasn't seen, phones he's never used, but he keeps going as she meets people and discover the streets of the underworld.

He falls asleep on the table just after she meets the punk. Jack doesn't wake him.

 

*

 

Behing his eyelids, he sees metal hands clenching on guns, or wrists, or necks. He sees red coming out of blue lips. He sees engines to being trapped in and engines to be killed with.

He starts to get used to the taste of blood on his tongue when he wakes up.

 

*

 

Bucky's twenty-seven years old and it's a fucking miracle he's alive.

He's seen newspapers with his name, and Dum Dum's, and Gabe's. The papers say they've been missing for weeks. He can't tell. He could, at the beginning – he used to count the days, make sure not to forget how much time he was spending in this hellhole. He held the count for a while, even when he got threats and bruises and much worse than that, or even when they were trying to find a way to escape, “accidentaly” killing the commander. Even as they were forced working on nazi weapons, even as the taste of blood and vomit and ashes wouldn't leave the back of his throat.

He stopped counting when he got sick . That's when he stopped counting. That's when he forgot. It feels almost unreal, now, to walk on the american floor again. The times he was able to think, it were the same things that would come up in his mind, always.

Becca, who would always write letters to him whenever she could, sending greetings from Charlie, Maggie and Mom, asking him to call her as soon as he was back home. Who knows how many letter she had sent, letters that would never have an answer, not even someone to read them. Who knows if he would ever read them – the letters could have get lost, and he could have get killed.

Charlie, Maggie, Mom, which he hadn't been visiting for way too long, if it weren't for short appearences and family dinners – when he was in town, not on the field, and not taken anywhere else. He should have been a better brother. Better son.

Steve, always, Steve's stupid face with his broken nose and his pretty eyes. He would wish so many things, for Steve. He would wish that he was alive, first things first, because God, how many times had he been afraid for him to just die. How many times had he been scared to death that a little cough would take him away, make him disappear, just like that. He should have taken better care of him, he should have given everything he could, everything he had or didn't have, because damn the War, damn the whole World, Steve was everything that mattered. They should have had more time. They didn't have enough – unfair. They spent nights and nights glued to each other, even if the summer heat was burning their skin and making them glitter with sweat. They stayed there, limbs tangled, even when it was gross. In winter, Bucky would cling on him even harder, to protect him from the cold and the illnesses and everything. Almost twenty years, _twenty whole years_ with Steve, but it wasn't enough. Oh, God, it wasn't enough. But the perspective of more time wasn't an option anymore, when he got sick – the concept of hope didn't exist anymore, at the time.

Bucky's twenty-seven years old and it's a miracle he's alive.

The miracle's happen to be called Steve.

To be honest, with his own head blurred by fever and pain, he didn't recognize him. He heard footsteps and thought they were gonna hit him again. But they didn't, and then when he felt a hand that wasn't hostile on his shoulder, the first non violent touch he'd had for he didn't even know how long, he allowed himself to think that thanks Lord, some help, he was gonna live. He opened his eyes and he couldn't see the face of the guy that was setting him free, loosening the tight straps around his arms. He held himself back to hope for more. At this point, it was too easy to hope, but too hard to fall, too. “They're transfering me”, he thought. “I'm gonna die, they're transfering me because I'm gonna die”.

« It's me, » he heard. « Steve. »

And then he saw his face, and it was _his_ face. His dumb smile and his crooked nose and his blue eyes. He looked all tall and big, and for a moment, Bucky thought he was dead, because Steve, healthier than he ever has been in twenty-seven years of existence, taking him away from Hell, could only be Heaven and fuck, for all the times that Bucky spoke in God's name, he hasn't ever been sure to believe in that shit. « Steve, » he said.

« Come on, let's get out of here. » And then Steve helped him gets up, and he knew he wasn't dead. « I thought you were dead, » Steve says, and Bucky feels a hand gripping softly on the back of his neck.

He thought he was dead, too. « I thought you were smaller. » In another context, another time, he would have said that in a cocky tone, and Steve would have pretended he was pissed off. He wasn't even trying, right there, with a big, tall Steve in front of him and who knows how many days of proper sleep deprivation and malnutrition, he just sounded _dumb_.

And then there was Steve holding him, the way _he_ always used to hold Steve. He still couldn't exactly figure if all of this was real.

It's real, apparently. Steve explained everything as soon as they were safe and sound, and Bucky was starting to get better ; his broad shoulders, his super-strenght, the whole “Captain America” – and seriously, what a name is that – thing.

Right now, that also means that Steve can't get drunk, which must by why he's been paying drinks to everyone for an hour or so. He's watching him for afar, listening to all the praising on Steve, and the tipsy songs that come after, and then Steve comes back to him. It feels strange, now, not to have him for himself, and Christ, he hates himself for thinking that, because Steve isn't his _thing_ and he wouldn't dare pretending so. The time when Steve was small and fragile and holding on to Bucky and only him feels like it was a century ago. It is, in a way.

« See? Told you, » Bucky says when Steves sits next to him. He's still adjusting the fact that Steve is taller than him, now, even when they're sitting. « They're all idiots. »

Steve smiles. « How 'bout you? You're ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death? » He's still adjusting to everyone looking at Steve, too. Bucky used to be the handsome one. Not that he ever thought that Steve _wasn't_ ; he never could understand why he seemed to be the only one, because fuck, Steve was beautiful. Sometimes, they would sit in his kitchen in the downing heat of a summer evening, talking or drinking beer or eating, and Bucky would be amazed at how well the light would _glow_ on Steve's face, how blue his eyes looked like that.

Bucky smiles, too. He's got to get over that. People looking at Steve. It's good that they see how good he is, how much of a wonderful guy he's always been. It's what he always wanted for him. It's good, it's fine. « Hell, no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight, I'm following him. » He's never said something more true. That's what he always did, that's what he'll always do.

He'd follow Steve to the end of the world.

 


	2. part two

Adriane's back, as promised. He's still lying on the table, and with half opened eyes, he can see her talking with The Friend – Jack. His head feels heavy, and the ghosts of gunshots and banging noises are still wandering somewhere in his skull. Ariane's got her arm crossed and her eyebrows furrowed. She's nervous, but doesn't seem angry. Jack doesn't seem very tall, now that he sees him standing.

He could stay like that forever, the gunshots and banging noises aside. He could stay there, in that half-awake stage, not fully understanding what's happening around him or in his brain and not being functional enough to care. He could stay here, letting himself drown in the warmth and cheap coffee scents – like this, even the sounds in his head aren't so scary anymore. He could stay here, if he didn't remember anything at all, ever. It would be so much easier to slip into unconsciousness, maybe even let himself perish. He wouldn't be scared of the guns and the blood and the snow, of Bucky Barnes and broken memories and the feeling of warm water. He wouldn't be scared, no.

Adriane comes to him. « You're awake, » she says. « You ok? »

« Yeah, » he says, and he wasn't quite sure that a sound would actually come out of his mouth but it seems to work. « 'm fine. »

« Good, » she says, but she doesn't buy it. « Jack offered to let you live at his place for a while. I was planning to take you back to my flat but he's home more often. And he knows lots of people, so that could be useful for you. » She looks at him for a moment. He doesn't say anything, expecting her to say something else. « If you want to. Of course. »

And here it is – the awakening. Suddenly he's conscious and aware and scared in the span of two seconds, as it always goes.

He forgets to answer Adriane, but she takes his silence as a yes, because she's telling Jack that it's ok.

He stays a few more hours at the cafetaria, because Jack has classes too. Adriane gives him some money for food. She makes him swear that he's gonna eat. She makes him swear that he is gonna stay there. He swears. So, he buys some pasta box and eats half of it. And he stays.

He stays.

Jack doesn't forget to pick him up. He comes back from class, his parka on his shoulders, his computer case over his shoulder and his headphones around his neck. « You're here, » he says. « Cool. We can like, get headed to my place, I guess? »

They take the subway. There are people on the platform, too much. And he wonders how Jack, Adriane, and everyone else do this. He wonders how one handles that. There is a little girl, on the opposite platform, pointing her finger at him. He doesn't know why. Her mom pats the finger away, says something he can't hear. The little girl's wearing a red rain coat. She's still looking at him. Her mom says something again, and this time he can hear. The kid's still staring. He doesn't know why. He doesn't know why.

 

*

 

« It's a mess, » Jack says the minute he pushes the door of his flat open. « 'm sorry. » But he doesn't mind that – the mess. The flat is small and invaded by books, movies, computer pieces, clothes that look like they've been thrown against the walls, curled up like sleeping cats on the floor. He doesn't mind the mess, really. It looks alive. It looks real. Besides a stray cat and a tramp he both fed, he hasn't felt like anything was real since he left Adriane's flat. Sometimes, even there, Darcy and her looked like dreams, the flat felt like a specter. The realness of the room he's standing in is temporary. Soon, it will fade. Everything he touches turns into a ghost, because that's what killers do.

« 's ok, » he says. His voice is hoarse. His voice is always hoarse. Maybe it's because he doesn't use it very much. Maybe it's because he spent seventy years screaming everytime they would wake him up.

It's warmer in the apartment. Jack takes his coat off, rolls the sleeves of his grey jumper. There are black bands tattooed on his forearms, from the wrists to the elbows – three on each. He wonders if there are more, under the jumper. He wonders where Jack got them. « You can, like, make yourself at ease. Take off all your stuff and shit. » Jack pours some kind of powder in a fish tank. He hadn't seen it before. « Do you need any fresh clothes? »

« I still have some I haven't used yet. Need to wash the others. »

« I'll take you to the laundromat tomorrow. I don't have a washing machine here, but there's this cheap place that's like, one street away. »

He doesn't have a clue what a laundromat is, but he nods.

« Do you want to eat something in particular? » He shakes his head. « Is pizza ok? » He nods again. « Nice. I'm gonna get the menu and let you choose. » He ends up choosing something random because he has no idea what half of the toppings are, and doesn't find the nerve to ask.

 

*

 

An evening at Jack's is very different from an evening at Adriane's.

While Adriane's flat was all wide open rooms and clean organisation, Jack seems to make piles with everything in any piece of space he can find. Adriane's place was very quiet, and while there isn't any noise in the apartment here either, you can hear cars honking or dogs barking every few minutes. Adriane would always cook quick, but healthy meals, while Jack mostly orders some or heats something from his freezer.

He's ok with it, though. He doesn't complain. He's got a roof, something to fill his stomach. It's good. It's ok. When he goes back in the streets, he'll tell himself that it's ok, too. It has to be ok. It has to be.

« You can stay here a little bit, » Jack says. « Must admit that I don't have like, loads of money, and I can barely buy my own food, you know, but a few days should be ok. »

And it's bad, bad, bad, because he shouldn't do that to people. He shouldn't take their money, he shouldn't try to survive, he doesn't even have to survive, he doesn't even know why he keeps trying and trying and trying. « Can I do something for you? » He asks. He wants to cry. He wants to puke. « I can pay some food, I still have some money Adriane gave me. »

Jack smiles. « I wouldn't accept if I was like, wealthy, but I'm not. » He shoves a slice of pizza into his mouth. It has pineapples on it. « Let's say you pay for your own food 'till you can't anymore, and then I pay for you. » And it's bad, bad, bad. He can't do that. He can't. « I don't think we'll get there, though. I may have a solution for you. »

There's still some pizza in his box, too. This one doesn't have pineapples on it. He doesn't touch it. « I don't want to – owe more things to more people. » He doesn't deserve it, oh, no.

« Man, there's no shame in accepting a little help. » There is. « Plus, I think you'll like my solution. » Jack eats another slice. It's crazy how fast he eats. « Back to when I came in this country, I had to like, find a job. Not the easiest of things – I think you can understand that pretty well. I was looking for simple stuff, like, cleaning houses or dogsitting or something, and I found that ad in a bakery, saying that an old lady was looking for someone to take care of her for the summer. I didn't even have a roof to sleep under at the time – cool that I knew some friends here, but she let me sleep in a spare room the time I was working for her, which was basically cooking, help her get on her feets when she needed it, do the groceries, that kind of shit. Paid me a pretty nice amount of money in the end. » A piece of pineapple falls on the cardboard. « It's been like, two years, and I don't know if she's already hiring someone, but I can ask her. Can't do that right now, because the lady won't ever answer the phone, but I'll go to her place tomorrow or something. Ask her. » Jack picks back the pineapple. « If you're ok with that. »

He doesn't know. He doesn't answer.

« Eat something, man, » Jack says. « Y'need it. I'll take your money, don't worry. You don't owe me shit. » Why does he survive?

He tries.

And he eats.

They don't really talk after this. Jack tells him about the names of his fishes – Andy and Jude, how much he misses the dog he had back in Croatia – he's from Croatia – and how he misses his mama's food, too. He doesn't expect conversation. He doesn't ask questions.

Later, he offers him a shower, and then the couch, a blanket and a little bottle of water on the floor, in case he wakes up during the night – Jack says he tends to do that a lot, and he always keep a bottle now so he doesn't have to move his ass to the bathroom. Jack leaves the room to let him change, and comes back two seconds later because he forgot something. He didn't have the time to change, in two seconds, but he's shirtless, and Jack sees his arm. He apologizes, and leaves again, throwing a second “good night” behind his back. He doesn't ask questions.

It's ok.

 

*

 

The dreams have faces.

It would be easier, if they didn't. But they have faces, sometimes names. They're here, in some obscure place of his head. They've written all the names with blood, so he remembers who he's gotta kill, who he's gotta erase.

It would be easier, if they didn't have faces, if they didn't have names.

They do.

 

*

 

The next morning, when he wakes up, Jack is already in the living room. It's still dark oustide. Jack's putting some stuff in his bag – his computer, some paper files, a sandwich wrapped in cellophane – when he sees him. « Sorry. Didn't want to wake you up. » His accent is thicker in the morning.

« Y'didn't, » he says. « Was awake. »

It's a lie. « 'kay, » Jack says. He doesn't seem to buy it. « I was gonna leave a post-it somewhere but it's actually better I talk to you. Just wanted you to know, like, feel free to take food in the fridge, take a shower, anything. I don't have two sets of keys, but I won't be long, kay? I'll be back by noon. »

« Ok, » he says.

« Ok, » Jack says.

And then he leaves.

He can't keep himself to fall asleep again, even if he shouldn't, because it's scary. He shouldn't.

He falls asleep, anyway.

 

*

 

Bucky's eighteen and his girlfriend Annie, with her blonde hair and italian words, is the first one to last longer than two months. He's the first to be surprised – the second being Becca, of course, who always has been making fun of him for being such a womanizer, going from a girl to another in the span of a week.

He's brought Annie home a fair amount of times, now. His mom would always be in awe of how pretty she looked, with her pretty curls and fancy dresses. She says she would be a good wife – and if being kind to her man, smiling a lot and cooking good meals is the definition of a good wife, then she surely is perfect, and maybe he should marry her for real.

But he isn't in love, no. Not that it's a problem – most people get married without bothering about that. But he isn't in love. Or he could be, for all that he knows, but what he knows is nothing at all. He doesn't know how he's supposed to figure out.

But it doesn't feel different, with Annie. It is, in the way that he's been with her for a while, now, and apparently, everyone is waiting for him to stay with her forever. For the rest, it's the same that it's always been. He likes her face, he likes her body. He likes to kiss her, likes when they have sex – or at least what you're supposed to do before, but that's all they do because she doesn't want to do the _real thing_ before marriage and he can only respect that. He likes the way she sounds when she laughs, when she talks, he likes that she's proud to be smart as much as she would be to be _a good wife_. He does like Annie. It isn't butterflies in his stomach and warm feelings in the heart if that's what love's supposed to be, but he likes her. He likes to kiss her.

They're in the tenth month of their relationship when Steve gets a girlfriend. He knows it's the tenth because Annie would remind him every 16th of the month and he's got used to that date, now, registered it. He couldn't remember at first, and he still sometimes forgets how many time it's been - « You're such a _boy_ , » Becca would say as if it was a slur.

Steve's girl's pretty charming herself, he has to admit that – the first time Bucky meets her, she looks almost etheral, the smoke of her cigarette flying in waves and spirals around her dark hair. There is a smile behind the red of her lips, because she's talking to Steve. The first thing that comes to Bucky's mind is that _finally,_ some lady sees the good in him. He's always so mad at all the girls that would look at him with badly hidden disdain, or pity, which happens to be even worse, sometimes. He can't understand how they can, can't understand why is that most of people won't look at him twice because they think he doesn't matter. Of course, when you know Steve, it's not the same. You just have to talk to him for more than ten minutes to aknowledge that.

Sometimes, Bucky hates himself for having so many girls interested in him, because he doesn't deserve all that attention. Steve does. Bucky is an empty box – pretty gems on the top, dust in the inside. Steve is full of jewels and precious stones and hidden treasures. There's a part of him that wants everyone to see that, that wants every lady to turn around in the street, and see how much Steve _glows_.

The lady – Carol – seems to see, though. That same part of him is grateful for that, happy to see the light in her eyes that means that she genuinely respects Steve, likes him, relieved to know that she isn't going out with him out of _compassion_.

When Steve introduces Carol to Bucky and Annie – she's here, too, like a real _double date_ and fuck how ridiculous does that sound – and the two of them begin to small talk with her, something hits Bucky in the stomach. Carol is lovely. Carol is beautiful. Carol is good for Steve.

When that other part of him manages to talk, it says that Bucky mainly wants to be the only one to be good for Steve, that he wants Steve to look at him like he looks at Carol. He looks at her, talking with his own girlfriend, lightening another cigarette, making gestures with her hands while she tells a story, her red painted nails drawing ephemeral waves in the air. For a brief moment, he imagines being her – not being her in the _being a girl_ way. Being her and having the chance to dance with Steve, kiss his cheek, hold his hand, get this look he sees in his best friend's eyes.

When he comes back to himself, he's pretty sure he's gonna puke. He excuses himself and goes to the bathroom.

And he pukes.

He comes back in the pub after ten minutes as if nothing happened, and tries to forget the _taste_.

Two hours later, after walking her home, he breaks up with Annie.

He pukes again.

 

*

 

He wakes up with the taste of vomit already in the back of his troath, nausea assaulting his stomach. He always has trouble remembering who and where he is when he wakes up – the fact that he finds the bathroom in a house he's been in for only one night is a miracle itself. Only then he throws up.

It's been a while, and he had almost forgotten how it felt, but now acids are burning his throat and his hair is sticking to his face and he's sick, sick, sick. It lasts long, long enough for him to aknowledge that he's _awake_ , long enough to start thinking, again. His heart beats too fast, a hammer on his ribcage. He's gonna die. He's gonna _die_.

Maybe this isn't that bad, after all. Maybe he can throw up the memories. Not only the murders, the snow, and the screams, but also Bucky Barnes. And he wouldn't think of him or Steve Rogers ever again. He wants to vomit the feelings, too – he doesn't want them, doesn't need any of these things. He'd be a brand new person. No blood on his hands, no monsters in his head, no ache in his guts. He'd be empty, in a pure and new way.

But he still feels, fuck, how he feels. Right now, it's the burning sensation of vomit getting out of his mouth and the face of Captain America flashing in his head, and the sound of his voice, the smell of his hair, and he wants it to stop but it doesn't, it doesn't stop. He'd rather be tasting blood in his mouth and seeing himself strangling already half-dead people right now, and that's a terrible thing to think about, but it's true, because at least, these memories are his. That's what he's done, that's what he deserves.

This beating heart and these tears are not his, no, oh, no. The ghosts don't have hearts, the deads don't have tears. He's a ghost, and he's dead, and he isn't supposed to be like this.

He pukes, more and more. He doesn't even know what's going out, doesn't even remember what he ate or not.

He falls asleep with his cheek pressed to the toilet. This time, he doesn't dream.

 

*

 

Jack hasn't come back when he wakes up.

That's a good thing, that Jack isn't there. He would have found him with dried vomit on his chin, his head closer to the toilet than necessary, smelling like sweat and puke and tears.

When he gets up, he gets to see his face in the mirror. His eyes are red. He doesn't recognize what's in the blue of them. Steve Roger's eyes were blue, but that's one thing he'd rather not remember.

How can he not remember, when he was punching the shit out of him two weeks ago, yelling to cover the noises in his head telling him to stop, yelling that it was his _mission,_ because nothing else matters, only the mission, he's a weapon, that's what he's here for, and nothing else, nothing else, not Steve Rogers or how his voice sounds familiar or his fucking eyes, not how he hurts _himself_ everytime he hurts him, everytime he makes a new bruise on his cheek, on his nose, on his chin.

He closes his eyes and when he opens them again, he isn't looking in the mirror anymore. He flushes the toilet, takes off his clothes, and goes in the shower. Jack said he could. It's better doing that than being seen like this – even though he's pretty much sure that he looked even worse yesterday, when Adriane brought him to Jack. Because of the streets, of sleeping next to trashcans against walls stained by dog piss, of not showering six or seven days.

Jack is there when he gets out of the shower, though. He's afraid, at first, because he can only hear a door banging and footsteps behind the bathroom door, and he still has trouble remembering where he is sometimes, but he heard keys in the lock and it can only be Jack, so it's ok.

« You ok? » Jack asks when he comes out of the bathroom.

His face is still wet and his hair is sticking to his jaw, but this time, it isn't sweat or vomit. He's wearing the t-shirt he used for sleeping ; Jack can see the arm, but he can't see the scars. He's probably seen some yesterday – he remembers having scars on his back, sometimes feels them, some parts of his skin dry and weird under his fingers when he dares trying to touch. But he doesn't want Jack to see more. Jack doesn't ask questions and he doesn't want him to start formulate some, even in his head. Some part of him doesn't want to be seen as a ghost, doesn't want to be dead. If he can be alive to at least one person – Darcy, two, Adriane, three – then maybe he can really be someone new, whether he throws up his own self or not. « 'm fine. » He's been waiting way too long before answering.

« Do you want me to take your clothes ? I'm going to the laundromat. Need to wash some of my stuff anyways. I'm running out of sweaters, and it's really fucking cold these times. » It's true. Goosebumps have appeared on his right arm, cold water along to reach his hand, and then his fingers, and then the floor. Same water is dripping from the left arm, but he doesn't feel these ones.

« That'd be nice. »

« You can give me your stuff, I'll go. » He takes the dirty clothes from his bag. They smell like sweat, and piss. The streets are dirty. « I'm sorry it's cold here too. The heating is kinda expensive, I try to keep it down a little bit. »

« It's ok. I'm used to cold. » He wishes that he felt the goosebumps.

« You still have something warm to put on ? I can give you something. I must have something oversized – I mean, oversized for _me_. You're kind of strapping, you know. »

« Thought you were running out of sweaters. »

« Well, I still have some I never wear, smartass. » Jack smirks. « Like the big ones. »

« Why do you have big ones? »

Jack's picking a big plastic bag from the floor, in the corner of the room, where all the plastic bags are. He shrugs. « Used to cover myself in layers and layers of oversized clothes. I didn't like how I looked very much. I kept the sweaters for days at home, because they're warm and comfy. So, yeah, you can take them. »

« Thanks. »

Jack shoves his clothes into the plastic bag. « Y'welcome. They're in the wardrobe. The big ass drawer on the left. » He takes some other pieces of clothing on the floor, goes to his room for more. He comes back for a last look, and when he's sure he hasn't forgotten anything, the plastic bag crashes on his shoulder. « I'm going to get these washed. I'll be right back, 'kay? »

He nods. « 'kay. » He's wearing one of Jack's shirts, now. It's navy blue, with a wolf printed on it.

And so, Jack leaves. He comes back twenty minutes later, the plastic bag no longer on his shoulder, but holding another bag, different, by his fingers – he's wearing mittens. There's food in the bag ; Japanese food, Jack says. « Like, _never_ never? » Jack asks when he tells him that no, he hasn't tried sushis. And he nods. « Damn, man. That's a tragedy. You gotta taste that. » And so he does, and it's weird and unfamiliar but nice.

He could stay here, he tells himself. In another universe, where he wouldn't be a ghost, where he wouldn't be dead, he could stay.

 

*

 

Later, he asks Jack if he can talk to Adriane. Jack lets him use his computer, on a _website_ called the facebook, and suddenly he can talk with Adriane like she was in the room. He's a bit slow with the keyboards, even though he's pretty sure he's been using some in the past. He doesn't say much, but it's fine. Adriane gives him Darcy's name for Jack to start a conversation with her – Darcy Kirk – and so, he talkes with her too. He misses her. He didn't know he could miss.

When he's done talking, Jack opens a window and lights up two cigarettes, one for each. It's freezing, and their noses are red, but Jack tells him about this show he's been watching, and then about this weird guy he sometimes sees at the grocery store who buys cucumbers and only cucumbers, and then about other things, and it's ok. Jack talks a lot, but he doesn't ask questions. It's ok.

They close the window, and he opens his bag.

In the notebook, under the _good people_ headline, he writes _Jack_.

 

*

 

« I'd like to do something for you, » he says the morning after.

Jack isn't in class. He said this morning's weren't important, found some pancakes in a fridge and put them into a pan. « And why is that? » Jack asks. He upturns a pancake, then two. Jack's wearing short sleeves, which gives an answer avout his tattoos ; the black rings stop at his elbows, but some words nearing his shoulder. It's from a song, Jack told him.

« Because I'm sleeping in your house, » he says. « I'd like to do something in return. »

Jack smiles. « Man, you don't have to. Already told you that. » Another pancake is turned up. « You're here because you needed help. And I'm getting you some more help. Period. » Jack puts down the spatula and turns around to face him, his hands and back against the counter. « 'Bout that. Wanted to ask you. Do you have any papers? »

Shit. « No. »

« That's what I thought. » The black bands on his forearms move as he lifts himself up to sit on the counter. « I can get you some, you know. Papers. »

He lifts an eyebrow. « What? »

« I mean. I can do these sort of things. I've already made fake papers. The Visa I used to come in the US was fake, too. I could have had one legally, but it was quicker that way, and I know what I do. Back in Croatia, I used to craft fake ID cards so my friends could buy some drinks. » He picks a pancake from the pan and takes an hesitant bite, then eats the whole thing and licks his fingers. « You're gonna need an ID. I mean, the lady that I want you to work for doesn't ask for that kind of shit, but you never know when you need it. That's pretty much necessary for everything. » And he doesn't say anything. That's something he knows, fake identities ; not him, because he had – _has –_ no identity at all, but he remembers different names for the same faces in different places. Fake names, surnames, nothing was real. « We can start with that, you know. An ID. That would be good. » If Jack tells the truth and he really can do that, then he can do what special agents can do. It's scary. Not because he doesn't trust Jack – he's not sure he fully does, but he wants to – but because this kind of knowledge shouldn't be that easy to get.

« How do you do that? » He asks.

« Oh, I'll show you. That's real easy. It takes a while to learn, but then you're used to it, and you just know. Like when you learn to ride a bike when you're a kid. » And then he gets down from the counter, takes two plates and serves the pancakes with some syrup.

They eat in silence, sitting on the floor of Jack's living room – maybe because they silently agreed to the fact that the couch is his bed, now – until he says something. « I'd still like to do something for you. For the food and the roof and the – papers. »

Jack closes his eyes. He doesn't look annoyed ; he's patient, but his face always says, somehow, that he's tired. « Said you don't have to. Really. I appreciate, but that's ok. »

« But I want to. »

Jack looks at him for a few seconds. Shoves a pancake into his mouth. « You're cute, » he says, with his mouth full. Then he smiles. « Fine. Tell me your story. »

Eyebrow lifted, again. « What? »

« That's what I want you to do for me. Tell me your story. »

He can't do that. « Why? »

« I'd like to know about it. That's all. »

Some part of him wants to tell. The part behind his ribcage, the part he doesn't want to listen to. But he can't do that. That's the one thing he can't do. « I can't do that, » he says, but he wants to do something, something for Jack, for _someone_ , something that isn't shooting or stabbing or punching. Why does Jack want to know about his story?

« Told you, » Jack says while he keeps eating. « You don't have to do anything. »

Something, something, _fucking do something_. « I want to. »

Jack collects the maple syrup from the plate with his finger. When he's done licking it, it still looks sticky. « If not the story, you can start by telling me your name. I'm gonna need something to put on these papers, y'know. » And Jack smiles.

« James, » he says.

« I know that. Your full name, I mean. Not necessarly the, like, _real_ one. You can choose it. Brand new identity and shit. »

The first name he thinks about is Barnes, but he pushes the thought as fast as it comes. He does the same with Rogers. He doesn't know which one is worse. Then he thinks about Darcy, and it sounds ok. « James Kirk, » he says.

And Jack laughs. Not one of his cocky smiles, not an amused sigh that always make him seem even more tired than he already does, but a real laugh. « Really, man, you gotta chose something less obvious. Everyone's gonna know it's an alias. »

He doesn't understand. « Why? »

And Jack laughs again, then looks at his big, tired eyes. « Please, don't tell me you've never heard about Star Trek. »

 _Ah_. « No? »

Another smooth chuckle. « Damn, man. » Jack eats the last pancake. « I really have to do your whole education. »

And James smiles. He doesn't know why, but he smiles.

James smiles.

 

*

 

Jack shows James about Star Trek. He falls asleep before the end of the third episode, and that night, he doesn't dream.

 

*

 

The day after, he realizes he doesn't know the day, the month, or even the year. « Can I ask you something? » They're eating, again. That's when they mostly talk, because the rest of the time, Jack is in class or doing whatever he's doing on his computer, headphones on. When he takes pauses, he talks a lot, but mostly, he stays silent. James likes both as long as he doesn't ask questions, and he doesn't. James is always the one with the questions.

« 'course man, » Jack says. Today, he brought chinese food.

« What's the day? » It feels a little bit silly to ask, now.

« Hm. » Jack takes a look on his phone. « March 2 nd . »

« Which year? » And this is worse.

But Jack doesn't ask. « 2014. » Jack never asks.

 

*

 

Later, in the notebook, on a new page, he writes: _March 2 nd, 2014_.

He writes: _I'm seventy._

Seventy.

 

*

 

Jack comes to him, two days later, with an envelope full of papers. They've got James' face on it. The bright lights of the cabin he took the pictures in makes his skin look softer, his features smoother. And he almost looks like a nice – or at least, normal – looking guy, a guy you wouldn't look at and tell yourself that he must have murdered someone. That's new.

« That's everything you'll need, » Jack says. « Do you know what's what? How it works? »

James is thankful. Shameful. « No, » he says.

So Jack explains.

 

*

 

Later, Jack says, « Can I ask you something? »

It's the first time, the very first time, that Jack asks something. And even if James likes that thing about him, that he doesn't ask questions, he's always told himself that Jack would have the right to, because he's giving him sleep and food and there are a thousand things to wonder about him. He's been keeping him here for one week or so, keeping him from the streets, from the cold, from the long nights spent not sleeping and wandering and crying, crying, crying. And even though James stills cries during the night, even if nothing in his head is really better than it was, even when he thinks it is, Jack's helped, like Adriane, like Darcy, and Jack deserves answers even if they're answers James can't give.

James doesn't say a thing, but he nods, a silent guarentee that he's gonna try. « You don't have to answer, » Jack says, but James has to, he knows he has to. « What happened? » And James' hand – the metal one – clenches under his glove, the joints of his fingers contracted, the vibranium making no noise but resonating in his guts. But he isn't supposed to _feel_ this hand, isn't supposed to feel _anything at all_ – « You don't have to answer, » Jack says. « It's just, you know, I'm just – wondering. Because you don't know what year it is, you don't seem to know how internet works at all even though you barely look thirty and you don't seem to have been in the streets for _that_ long, and I'm pretty sure even bums know how to use an iPhone nowadays – » and James is'nt talking, and Jack says « I'm sorry. Shouldn't have asked. It was rude. »

« I – », James tries, but the words he doesn't even know stay in the back of his throat. « I don't remember, » he says, because that's the simpliest way to say it. « I used to be someone and now I don't remember who I am and – » breathe, breathe – « it's been so long, so long, and I don't know how things work because I never learned, because they kept erasing my memory and I don't know – » That's the furthest he can go for an explanation, that's all he's gonna be able to say, and Jack deserves more, Jack deserves answer, but James doens't have more, doesn't have answers.

« Hey, » Jack says. « Hey, it's ok, hey. You don't have to – I'm sorry I asked, ok? I thought it would feel good for you to talk about it but if it doesn't, don't. Just know you can talk, ok? You can talk, if you want. » Pause. « You want a cig? »

And James nods, and follows him to the window. And it's cold, it's really cold. Jack says something, apologizes about having to open the window, tells James he would smoke with windows closed if it was his choice but the landlord would kick him out if his walls smelled like cold smoke. James doesn't mind the cold. « I don't remember, » James says. He's used to it, the cold. « I mean, I do – I do remember some things, now. Bad things. And good things, but even these ones aren't so good because – it's like they don't belong to me, and I have no right to take them. » He's talking, now, and he doesn't know why.

And when James talks, Jack talks, too. « What do you remember? » He hands James a cigarette.

And James inhales. « Things they made me do – that's the bad things, mainly. Bad, horrible things. I didn't know what I was doing, they did something to me, and – I don't know, I didn't remember, and now I do, slowly, get every piece back. I did bad, bad things. »

« You said it yourself, » Jack says. « You didn't know what you were doing. »

« I know, » James says. « But I did it. »

They stay silent for a while, their arms hanging out of the window, occasionnally lifting the cigarette they have in their hands to inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. The sky is grey. James can't remember if he's seen the sun shining up on this city – maybe before, from the time he deosn't want to talk about. « And the good things? » Jack asks, and that's it, that's the time he doesn't want to talk about.

« The good things aren't mine, » James says. He doesn't deserve the good things.

« I don't think the bad things are either, then, » Jack says. And then, again : « What do you remember? »

He remembers a mother, evenings spent where she would tell him and his sisters stories before sleep, where he would be the only one still awake in the end, pretending he was asleep. He remembers a sister, long nights during teenage years spent talking with legs tangled in a bed way too small, times she asked him which dress she should chose for which occasion, times she asked him to help her study, since he wouldn't do so for himself anyway. He remembers girls ridden home late in the night, hot, hot night, hands being slipped under skirts and red lipstick still on his cheek when he would go home. He remembers girls he would date for two weeks, two months, girls he would date for more, he remembers looking at boys in a way he probably shouldn't have. He remembers him, the boy with the blond hair and the blue eyes and the crooked nose, him, the good one, while he'd always been the sinner, him, oh God, _him_ , he remembers him. « I remember my name, » he says, and that's not what he wanted to come out of his mouth. Not because he wanted to say everything else, but because it's not _his_ name. He's not him.

« What's your name? » Jack asks, and it feels like that night he asked him and laughed about him for giving the Captain Kirk's name before showing him Star Trek, and it was the first time James didn't dream.

« Bucky, » he says, and again, he doesn't want to, but he's too tired to try to look for a way to find another thing to say now. He's too tired, too tired.

And Jack smiles. « I figured. » He smokes.

« What? » James asks. Jack isn't looking at him.

« You're Bucky Barnes, right? » And something freezes in Jame's guts. « Teachers talk about you to middle school kids. I didn't learn about you, and Captain America and shit at that time, because American History is less of a big deal in Croatia, but when Cap got back to life a few years ago, believe me, it became a big deal for the whole world. I already was living here anyway. Got the whole experience. » He smokes. « And I saw you and I thought that I knew your face from somewhere, but I couldn't recall where. It took a few days, but you know, information is an easy thing to get these days. You have a name coming up to your mind, Google does the rest of the job. I remembered the name, and then, there was your face, in black and white pictures and old, old footages. I had seen it, indeed. Internet and documentaries, mainly, about the Captain, because yeah, told you, a big deal. And with the poor quality of the pictures, it would have been easy to find similarities where there weren't any, and Bucky Barnes was dead, but they found Steve Rogers alive in a big ass ice cube, so why the fuck not. »

It takes a few seconds for James to process the information. Then, only, he starts to panic, but not even for the right reason – the right reason being that if Jack recognized him, many other people could have, and if anyone does, he's fucked. But it's not that, no. « I'm not – », he says, because he doesn't deserve that name, « I'm not him anymore. » Because it's worse if Jack knows who Bucky Barnes is, it's worse if Jack knows anything, because he can see that he is _nothing_ anymore.

« Smoke, » Jack says. « You're gonna waste that cig. » So James smokes. « I'm not gonna tell anybody you're alive, don't worry, » Jack says. And then, « You remember, yeah? Not everything, but you remember. »

Breathe in, breathe out. The smoke burns his throat. He's shaking. « Yeah. »

Jack exhales. There's smoke coming into the room because of the wind. It's gonna smell. « That's what matters, » Jack says.

Somehow, it sounds real.

And he cries. He feels like he should collapse, cry every repressed memory away, but he doesn't even have that, just lets a single tear drop and it's already so fucking much. « I don't know if it's enough, » he says, and yet, he's far too gone, his – _his –_ memories somehow coming back to life behind his forehead and he can't stop it, no. « I used to be good, and I've done such terrible things, and – »

Jack crushes the cigarette end into the ashtray he keeps on the window sill. « From what you told me, someone did something to you, and you weren't you, when you did those things, right? You weren't you. » He lights up another cigarette. « For all that I know, you seem like a decent human being. » And Jack doesn't ask. « What some manipulative assholes made you do doesn't make you the bad guy. »

James closes his eyes, his eyelids trembling, his limbs shaking – faintly, nothing that can be seen, only felt, deep down his bones.

« So, » Jack says. « How do I call you? Is Bucky alright? »

And he cries. « Yeah, » he says. A million pounds have been removed from his back.

« Come here, » Jack says, and before he can understand what's happening, he takes him into a hug.

And Bucky cries.

 

*

 

Bucky's twenty-three years old when the US joins the War, when the War becomes a World War. They're both gonna try joining the army, they're both gonna train – a whole lot more for Steve, and they both know Steve's gonna be rejected. Bucky won't say it, though ; he keeps encouraging his friend, keeps telling him he can do it, and honestly, with lots of efforts, he could, maybe, but he doesn't even want to think about it. He hopes Steve doesn't join, he hopes Steve stays home, stays safe, because fuck, the War would eat him up on his first day of duty. He doesn't want that for him.

Still, he trains him, because he's doing his best to be a good friend – even though good friends aren't supposed to think so selfish, but he tries reassuring himself, thinking that it's for Steve's own good, not because he loves him too much to let him go. Steve's doing his best too, and Bucky would lie if he said he didn't see any difference in one week. Steve's asthma is a though bitch and won't let him run faster, not for more than five or ten minutes, but he's getting better at push-ups and boxing, even though his arms are still small and thin. He's got that in him, though. The fight.

Bucky won't hit him, even if Steve begged him a thousand times to not be kind to him. Bucky blocks the punches, dodges, sometimes throws a weak attack but only when he knows that Steve's either gonna avoid it or hit back. He never hits him, he won't hit him, and Steve's pissed everytime they fight. « Stop fucking sparing me, » he would say, and Bucky would wonder how a body so small does handle so much determination.

« You did good, » Bucky says when they're back at Steve's flat.

« You did everything I've done, but like, twice, » Steve asserts.

Bucky takes off his shoes. « That's not the same thing, smartass, » he objects.

« Because I'm a weak little kid and you're the big guy? » Steve isn't facing him, and yet Bucky can tell he's grinning.

« Big guy yourself. » They've been friends long enough for Bucky to joke about his height and for Steve to joke about anything else.

They eat canned spaghetti with tomato sauce and sausages – canned food is basically all they eat, except when Becca brings cooked meals from home, made by their mom or by herself. Bucky always calls Steve for the occasion, even though they spend their evenings together without reasons most of the time. They joke about training being an excuse to see each other, but that's true. Times where he doesn't see Steve for more than a week feel weird, and God, Bucky joining – _if_ he joins – is gonna be hell without his fucking face.

« I know they're not gonna take me in the army, y'know, » Steve says. He's got his dirty plate in one hand and a soaked sponge in the other, scrubbing the sauce away.

« Don't say that, » Bucky says, a glass of cheap ass wine in his hand, and fuck, he's acting like he hopes for Steve joining but he doesn't even want to think about that. He wants Steve to stay there, because frustrated and unhappy is better than wounded or dead. He looks at Steve, the sleeves of his loose shirt upturned, and he doesn't want those skinny arms to hold guns, doesn't want to have blood on these small hands.

« I know, » Steve said. « You're gonna say that I've been training, that I've gotten better, and that I can do it, » he says, and he's right, Buck would have said that, but he wouldn't mean any of it. He's a terrible friend. « That's not enough, and we both know that. »

« At least try, » Bucky says.

« Oh, I'm gonna try. I'm gonna try a billion times if I have to. I never knew how to give up. » Steve's grin is a sad one, and Bucky wants to do things he can't even formulate in his own mind. « But yeah, it's kinda fucked. » He takes Bucky's plate. Buck tries to protest, tells him he's gonna wash it himself, but Steve doesn't listen. « I'm gonna miss you. »

Bucky's heart jumps. _Don't say that_ , he thinks, _oh, please, don't say that_. « Why do you say that? »

Steve sighs. His shoulders are tensed. « Don't be stupid, » he says, and he looks at Bucky, looking for an answers, something, but Bucky doensn't say shit, and Steve sighs again. « Because as I'm gonna be rejected, you're gonna join for sure. »

« We don't know that. »

« Don't be stupid, » Steve says again. « I'm gonna miss you, » he says, again, and Bucky hears it a few more times in his mind, again and again and again. _I'm gonna miss you_.

« I'm gonna miss you, too, » he says, and he may goddamn cry right here and right now. He can't afford that. « Life's gonna be tasteless without seeing your punkass face everyday. » They're gonna register in one week, and Bucky's gonna go, and Steve's gonna stay, keeping Bucky's breath with him, keeping his heart with him. Bucky's afraid Steve could see what's inside, then, but that's only stupid poetry, that's only him being desperate. Bucky's gonna go, and Steve's gonna stay, and none of them will read in each other's heart anymore.

Steve turns away, his back on the counter. The crappy light of the kitchen make his eyes glow, and his hair golden, an angel. He pushes on his arms to sit on the worktop, muscles clenching under his light, light skin. « Gives you advantages, though. You won't have me to look after. That makes more time for the ladies. And you have the soldier thing bonus. Women love soldiers. »

Bucky finds a pack of cigs he left on the table. « I _always_ have time for the ladies, » he says, a grin on his face, as he lights up his smoke. He exhales. « Don't need you away to fancy some company. »

« That's not true, » Steve says. « Remember that one time you wanted to drive this girl home, but you had to ride me here instead because I had catched a fucking cold during the goddamn five minutes we spent outside? »

« That was _one time_ , » Bucky protests. « You really think I would let you down for some lady I don't even know? »

Sigh. « No, you wouldn't. That's the problem. »

« Your safety's important, man. I don't see the problem in that. »

« The problem is you always – like, I don't know, you always chose me instead of your own fucking life, and that's not right. You shouldn't do that. I can take care of myself. »

The smoke tastes bitter and dry, and so does Steve. « And I can take care of you, too. Steve, I just – do you know how much you _matter_? I'd never chose anything else over you. » _I'd lever let anything take you away, I'd never let you alone, I'd never love anything more than you, you,_ you _._ The smoke tastes bitter and dry.

« Then why are you leaving? » Bucky's heart breaks, Steve's face collapses. « Shit, that's not what I wanted to – shit, » he says.

« Steve – »

« _That_ is the problem, » Steve says. « That's the fucking problem, Buck. The problem is that you always chose me, and when you don't, I feel miserable because I want you to and that's not right and I shouldn't – I'm not allowed to think like that, ok? I'm not allowed to want to keep you from myself when you have the fucking right to live your life. »

« Steve, » Bucky mumbles, almost a whisper.

« It's the wine, » Steve says, because he's been drinking some too and the way he's build doesn't necessarly help with being good at handling alcohol. « It's the fucking wine, » Steve repeats, curses. Steve curses more, way more when he's drank a little bit. « Opens my damn mouth. Can't keep it shut. » To that, Bucky takes back the glass he had put on the worktop and finishes it. Hell. « I need you, I need you so fucking much, » Steve says, and that's too much, too much. « I don't want you to go because I don't know what I'll become if you – »

« I'll come back, » Bucky says. « The War will end, and I'll come back. » He'll always come back, to him, to home, because that's all he can do. « I'm here now, Steve. »

It's too late when he realizes he's holding Steve's hand. It's too late when he realizes he's kissing him, on the cheek, on the forehead, on the corner of his lips. And Steve says, « Buck. »

And Buck says, « It's the wine, » dumbly, because he can't find anything else.

And Steve kisses him, wet lips and wet eyes, drags him against his own body and yeah, Steve may be small, but he's not weak, not when Bucky's so far gone, so vulnerable. He's the weak one, he's always been the weak one. He looks at Steve through his eyelashes. Steve is gold, Steve is holy. « It's the fucking wine, » Steve says when they part, and then « No, fuck, no, it isn't. »

Bucky fucking _sobs_. « No, it isn't, » he whispers, and then he's on him again, Steve still sitting on the kitchen worktop, wrapping his legs around Buck's body pressed against his own, Bucky's hands behind his thighs because it's too late for him to think and he doesn't even want to. He kisses Steve with all he has, his fingers trying to sink into him through the fabric of his pants. Steve's hands are in his hair, tangling and pulling. They don't think.

« I need you, » Steve pants. « Good God, I need you – », and Bucky's heart breaks, _breaks_ , and God, he's gonna die.

« I got you, » he says. « I'm here, I got you, » he says, but the truth is that Steve got him and nothing else. Steve got him since the beginning, and Bucky likes to fool himself into thinking that he has the control of the situation, whatever it is, but it's a lie, it's all a blatant lie. He hears Steve sigh as they kiss, hears him moaning when Bucky slides his hands under the fabric, but Steve doesn't stop him. He pulls him closer, asks him for more, panting, whimpering, and Bucky promises himself he will remember how he feels right now for future moments he'll want to die.

Steve comes with his forehead pressed against Bucky's shoulder. Bucky comes with his teeth sinking into Steve's neck. They're drunk. It's not the wine.

They stay like that for a while, too long, probably. Steve's legs unclenching from Bucky's waist, Bucky's hands under Steve's thigh, under his shirt, their breath heavy and their minds dazed. « It's not the wine, » Bucky says.

He can _hear_ Steve's smile, even if it's a tired one. « No, it isn't, » Steve says, and he kisses Bucky's forehead.

 

*

 

When he learns about it, he's not even with Jack. It would have been too easy, so, so easy.

When he learns about it, he's eating in a place that Adriane chose, because she wanted to see him, and he wanted to see her. They'll meet Jack after his class, and Adirane will go to her own, and they will go back at Jack's place.

It would have been too easy, if he already was there, too easy, so, so easy.

When he learns about it, they're eating – fish and chips for him and one of the few vegan plates they had for Adriane, and they're talking – or at least, she's talking. He isn't paying attention at the faint noise of the TV playing in the background, he doesn't mind the images coming on the screen even though he's facing it. Then, when he looks up, he recognizes _her_ , and he freezes. Adriane must notice, because she isn't talking anymore and he's hearing everything they say, now.

« _Yesterday, Natasha Romanoff announced that she was releasing all the SHIELD's files as proofs against HYDRA, also revealating her own past and uncovering a dozen of other agents of SHIELD. Which brings us to a question: is the world really a safer place with all of these agents, or even worse, these Avengers, around? Don't they make it even more dangerous than it already is? “You're not gonna put me in a prison,” Romanoff said. “You're not gonna put any of us in prison. You know why? Because you need us. Yes, the world is a vulnerable place, and yes, we help make it that way. But we're also the ones best qualified to defend it. So if you want to arrest me, arrest me. You'll know where to find me.” No need to say that the trial our journalists had the privilage to attend to will probably stay in our minds like one of the most important events of this decade._ »

When he learns about it, he leaves Adriane in the dinner with not enough apologies and too many questions. She follows him, and he won't talk, so she stops asking.

 

*

 

Trending Topics:

SHIELD

#SHIELDUncovered  
Natasha Romanoff

#WhoAreOurHeroes

#RomanoffTraitor

 

Washington Post @washingtonpost

“Yes, the world is a vulnerable place, and yes, we help make it that way. But we're also the ones best qualified to defend it.” wapo.st/4fcBc7z

 

Julia Smith @juliamariasmth

#WhoAreOurHeroes wapo.st/4fcBc7z

 

Martin Spencer @martinhspencer

Natasha Romanoff used to be an assassin. So is our government. The difference between her and them is that she had no choice.

 

Martin Spencer @martinhspencer

So yeah, think about reading the real story before shouting #RomanoffTraitor

 

*

 

« How do you know they had files on you? » Jack says after sitting at the table, his paper cup smoking in front of him. Bucky already burned himself with his own. He keeps his metal hand on the cup, now ; the vibranium's getting warm.

« Romanoff knows me, » he says. « And I – _encoutered_ some other SHIELD agents, in the past. »

« Yeah, but Romanoff's friends with Rogers, right? And Rogers's friends with you. » Was friends. _Was_. « I don't think he would be happy if she had sent the whole american government behind you. »

« How do you know they're friends? » Bucky frowns. « They're like, associates. Nothing tells us they're _friends_. She's not the kind of woman who would put herself in danger just not to hurt someone's feeling. She's a spy. »

« A spy who just decided to unleash all the information she had on the organization she was working for. » Jack takes his phone out of his pocket. « Plus, I spend time on the Internet, man. I read the news. There are pictures of them in restaurants, in coffeeshops, he even goes with her for her _shopping_. At least half of the population thinks they're dating. Look. » He shows him a picture of Romanoff and Rogers getting out of a coffeeshop. Romanoff's hair is tied, Roger's wearing a cap, and they both have sunglasses on. « God, they even have a couple name, » Jack says once he's got his phone back in his hand. « “Romanogers”. Gross. » He puts his phone down. « So yeah, I think they're kind of good friends. And believe me, if she decided to release all of this nasty information away, she didn't do it for SHIELD. She's already in a bad position now, and I think removing a folder from the pile wouldn't have made her situation worse. »

The thing is, she wouldn't have had to. Romanoff wouldn't have any other reason than her friendship with Rogers – he _shot_ her, for God's sake. Friends with Rogers or not, she probably wants him dead no matter what. Why wouldn't she. He _killed_ people. « But we're not like – sure of that, » he says. « We don't know what she did, which files she removed from the pile or not. »

« You're right, » Jack says. Bucky would have expected him to object, because Jack always knows everything about anything and he's pretty confident in what he says in general. « We can't afford that. » Does Jack knows he killed people. He didn't tell him that. He said “ _bad, bad things_ ”, not “ _murder”_ , but Jack isn't stupid. He said “ _they erased my memory and I didn't know what I was doing_ ”, not “ _a criminal organization brainwashed me and made me an assassin”_. But Jack is smart. « You're already like, not registered as James Barnes anywhere, » he says after sipping in his paper cup. « Unless as a dead person, 'course, but, yeah. But if they start hanging papers with your face on it everywhere, if the television gives your name everynight after the news, if the whole internet knows what you look like, you may have trouble doing anything without someone repairing you in the street. Even if we shave your beard, dye your hair and give you contacts, I mean. That's risky. » Jack talks the same as he thinks, brainstorming at the same time as the words come out of his mouth. « So what we can do is getting you out of the country _before_ this happens. I mean, we don't know if it's even gonna happen, but as I said, we can't afford that. If nothing happens, you could come back. Until then, I'd suggest you leave for another country. »

« I don't have money, » Bucky immediately says.

« Yeah, me neither, » Jack says. « That's a problem. But then, I don't think Adriane would hesitate for as second if you asked her for help. »

« She already helped me. » She helped him, way more than he deserves.

« I know. » Jacks puts his cup down. He's finished it. He's playing with the borders. « I know, » he repeats. « But we don't have many more options. »

In a part of his mind, Adriane's blending pealing fruits in a blender and he asks her _“why do you do this?”_ , watching the light reflect on her golden bracelets. « Why does she care? »

« We should probably book the flight for as quick as possible, » Jack says, not answering the question. « I'm gonna check if there are any for tonight. If not, you'll leave tomorrow morning. For Adriane, you could always give her her money back when you get some. I have a friend who can help you find a job. » He's searching something on his phone, again. Bucky can't see what it is. « Do you, by any luck, speak romanian? » He's half-joking, but still, Bucky nods. Jack looks surprised. « You're serious? I didn't think you would actually say yes. » Bucky nods. « Man, that's great. You have some romani roots or you learned it? »

He remembers learning romanian, learning russian, learning french and spanish and albanian, because he had to be able to handle a conversation in all these. Maybe there was a time where they actually sent him to mission where he would talk to people before shooting them in the eyeball, or choked the life away from their bodies. « My mom had family there, » he says, and it's true. He can remember that. « Never spoke romanian as a kid. Learned after. »

« That's cool, man. » His eyes are back on the screen of his phone. « You have a flight tomorrow at 4am. Is that ok for you? »

Some part of him tells him it's too quick, and that his brain is supposed to be used to sudden changes but he doesn't know if he's still able to handle. Some part of him tells him it's too late, that his picture will be in the papers and on the TV and on the Internet and wherever it can be within two hours. « Yeah, » he says.

« Ok, » Jack says. « I'll text my friend. He can keep you at his place for a while and help you find a job. Not a funny one, but it's better than nothing. » By _not a funny one_ , Jack certainly doens't mean killing people and honestly, everything seems fun next to murder. « He should answer soon. He never turns his goddamn notifications off. » Jack types fast as he talks – thinks, again. « Have to text Adriane, too. » Adriane's in class, worried as hell because Bucky didn't leave any answers for her and she's probably wondering why the hell he acted like that. And he's about to ask her for planes tickets that are probably more expensive than her whole flat. « I'm sending her the tickets. You can always give the money back later, ok? » Bucky nods, but Jack doesn't even look.

And as Jack's talking, and thinking, and typing, as Bucky's eyes water without him even knowing _why_ , he says : « Jack. » He says: « Why do you do this? »

Jack's eyes get up from the blue-ish white light of the screen. « What? »

Bucky doesn't look at him. « Why do you – why do you care? »

And Jack takes a moment to think, not spilling his thoughts right away, this time. And then, he says: « Didn't stop to think about it. I just do. »

And he goes back on his phone.

« Thank you. » Bucky might cry but this time, he doesn't.

 

*

 

He doesn't sleep, at Jack's. That doesn't stop him from remembering.

He remembers the car crashing on the side of the road, in the middle of the night, just after he shot it. He remembers the man's face, because the shitty light provided by the street lamp was enough to see, even if at the time, his brain was too mashed up to register. He remembers the man's name, he remembers his voice when he pronounced “ _Barnes?”_ just before he smashed his head on the cold, cold metal. He remembers the woman's crying, the pleading, the _Howard?_ , the _please, please, don't kill me_. He remembers the noise she made just before no noise could escape her mouth anymore.

He doesn't sleep.

It makes the way to the bathroom easier.

 

*

 

In Bucharest, the sky is grey. That's the first thing he notices, and he's not even outside yet. But he sees the sky, though the window, and it's grey. It's the same as it was in Washington the last day. That's a thing he can hold on to.

His hands are shaking from the lack of sleep and food. Again, he's supposed to handle that – not eating, not sleeping. He keeps vomiting and shaking and crying, and it's a fucking miracle he didn't collapse for seventy years. Maybe he did.

He keeps his hands on the coffee cup, trembling fingers around hot ceramic. He doesn't drink it right away – doesn't know if he will, because it's disgusting. He's been watching the people walking in front of the airport coffeeshop for maybe half an hour, waiting for the phone Jack gave him – he said he always kept the old ones in case someone may need them – to buzz with Jack's friend on the screen. In his bag, somewhere between the two plaid shirts and his notebook – he had to give up the gun, Jack put a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. « You may need that, » he said. « I mean, cigs are way, way cheaper in Romania, but you can smoke these ones between your two planes, at the Munich airport. So you don't stress out too much. » Bucky had two hours between the plane he just took and the one who would take him to Bucharest from Munich. He smoke five. He doesn't know when he got used to the taste. He's starting to think he should have bought something to eat during that time, but that didn't seem necessary, for some reason. They probably used to starve him for much longer, back there – _there_ ; he doesn't remember eating a single thing, even if he probably did, because they had to keep him alive, and in enough shape to do what he was asked to do. But the _taste_ , the consistency of it is a total blurr, like the food hadn't any.

He focuses on the taste every time he eats something. He focuses on the taste of the sandwich he buys, after finishing and paying the bad coffee. He tastes the tomatoes and the salad and the mayonnaise, and it doesn't taste too good, either, but it tastes like something.

 

*

 

In Bucharest, the sky is grey. He's outside, now, under the clouds, under the different – heavier – atmosphere of Romania. He's got a cigarette between his fingers – metal fingers, covered by the glove. It smells weird and kinda toxic. He doesn't think he could ever get used to it, but at the same time, he likes it. He rediscovers the scent, and the bitterness of the smoke in his throat everytime.

He's still watching people passing by. A woman stops in front of him. She's talking both english and russian in her phone, and when she asks Bucky if he knows the number of a cab company, in english, and he tells her that no, he's sorry, in russian, she's still happy all the same to hear the language. She stays with him a good ten minutes, saying that it's been so long she didn't have a real conversation in russian with someone, and that even if his russian is basic and rough, it's still good to hear. Then she says she's gotta call a cab anyway, that she doesn't have time, never has time. She arranges her curly blonde hair, takes a look on her make up in her pocket mirror, and goes away. Her perfume still stays there a few minutes after she's gone, despite the smoke.

At some point, Bucky ends up sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. He's got a text from Jack's friend, saying _sorry, will come in one hour_. It's ok. He can wait. He's used to sidewalks, he's used to the concrete and the smell of gas. He's got used to way worse than that, in the past. It's ok, it's ok.

In Bucharest, the sky is grey. The same grey that it used to be, back in Brooklyn. When he closes his eyes, he sees Steve trying to catch his breath after running in the streets, hears himself asking him if he's ok, apologizing for goofing around too long without thinking about it. He sees Steve eyes closed, breath regular, when Bucky couldn't sleep anymore, only watch him, listen to the rain hitting the windows, trying to remember everything for later. He remembers, now. He remembers.

Back in Washington, just before he left, Jack suggested it would be good for him to write down the memories. He said that yeah, he would do it, thinking that he would never, but still, the idea got him thinking a lot.

He finds his notebook under the pile of shirts, and it takes a little bit longer to find the pen. He opens the book where it's holding Steve's picture. Not even a real picture. It's looking at the horizon. Whoever painted it didn't catch what was in his eyes.

For the first time in forever, Bucky allows himself to think about Steve. Not like he did this past two months. Not thinking about him as Captain America, as he met him in this life and not as Bucky Barnes, not even distantly listening to his own memories and suddenly trying to replace them by anything but that when he realized.

For once, his mind is full. Missing pieces, but _full_.

And the sky is grey.

 

*

 

Bucky's twenty-seven years old and he remembers, now, why the memory of Steve kept him sane until it couldn't anymore. When he was down in Hell with nazis, with lips blue from the cold and face white from weariness and fingers red from the bruises, he would think about him. He wouldn't admit that, not to Steve, not to anyone ; Christ, he can barely admit it to himself. But Steve would always be there, in his twisted guts, in his twisted mind. Steve smiling, laughing, in the evening light or the everyone, or every single time he can record him fucking smiling. Steve under clean sheets, his skin sweaty and his legs trembling, the air hard to breathe with Bucky's face between his legs, their fingers tangled together, the noises they made for nobody except each other, a secret, a promise. Steve painting him, a smug smile on his face, telling him he moved too goddamn much while Bucky would light up a cig because he was too bored, the air smelling like cheap smoke and fruits. Steve's face and the memory of his heart beating against his own, and that was all, that would keep Bucky alive, that would make him go through the nine fucking circles of Hell if that was what he has to do.

And God, he wanted to die so hard, but he's glad he survived if he gets to have his hands on Steve again. And he does, with his fingers spread against the muscles of Steve's back – and that's new, but he likes that, too – and his lips wet, open, panting, pressed between his shoulder blades. When he was in Austria, he came up thinking that he deserved this, deserved Hell – he never considered himself as a bad guy until he realized he fell for Steve, but oh, when he knew, it became so bad.

He doesn't know how he gets to have a second chance, but he'll have plenty of time to wonder about it and hate himself later. Right now, he's ready to accept it, right now, it's ok. It's more than ok.

He slams in a little harder, and Steve whimpers. Bucky's afraid he hurt him and shit, he doesn't wanna hurt him, never, but Steve tells him to do it again, so he does. He places one hand on Steve's hip and the other on the bed, close to his head ; Steve takes it, clenches around his fingers, crushes them. Bucky's heart breaks, again and again and again, and it's always the same when it comes to Steve. His heart breaks, and there's nothing he can do, nothing he wants to do. And Bucky fucks him, and Steve is loud. That's ok, though, that's ok. They're in the spare room of some bar they went to with the others ; the music is still playing, the men are still laughing, the ladies are still dancing. They can be loud. They can be whatever they want. When they're over, they'll have to go down the stairs and act like they always do, like they aren't praying on their knees for each other, but right now, right now, they don't care.

Bucky fucks him, and Steve is loud. His fingers are painfully tight around Bucky's, but he wouldn't trade this pain for anything. Buck presses his chest against Steve's back and slides his free hand between his legs. His body's burning and his bare soul may be burning, too, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care. « Look at you, » he says, not thinking. « Fuck – look at you, » he says, and it's uncoherant and breathy, a gasp. « I love you, » he says, so low Steve wouldn't hear it if Buck didn't have his mouth right next his ear . They can be loud, they can be whatever they want, but this is more of a secret than anything else is. He repeats it, again and again, whispering, like a prayer. Steve can't talk, but it's ok, he hears him. « I love you, » he says, and then he's coming, and he's gone, gone, gone.

It takes a few seconds before he can put his brain together, before he can find the strenght to move a little bit more inside Steve, to twist his wrist around him. Steve bites Bucky's hand on his, and he clenches, and he gasps, and then he's gone, too.

They stay like that for a while ; Steve slowly releasing tension, letting his limbs fall on the sheets, Bucky still pressing against his back, his nose and lips as sweaty as Steve's back. They're gross and breathless, but what's left of Bucky's consciousness tells him he's living one of the best moments of his life.

« I love you, too, » Steve says. He's still holding Bucky's hand, but his touch is gentle, now, even if it always is, even when it's rough. « I never said it to you, » he says. « I was afraid, I think, because doing it was scary, but saying it was scarier. And I never said it to you. » His voice is low, but Bucky hears every word deep in his bones. « And then you disappeared, and I thought I could never tell you, and I felt like I was gonna die, because how could I have let you go away without telling you? »

Bucky rolls down Steve's side. « I'm right there, » he says. Steve's eyes are closed. « Hey, I'm right there. Look at me. » He opens his eyes. Thank god, they didn't change his eyes. « I never said it to you either, » Bucky says. « You don't have to feel guilty for that. »

« You did, » Steve says. A weak smile grows on his face. « You did, once. I know you don't remember. You were drunk. We both were, but I always had better memory than you. » Buck can't go against that. Steve used to get drunk faster, but no matter how much alcohol was in his blood, he would always remember everything. He would be the one telling him about what nonsense he had said the night before, what fucked up shit he had done. « We weren't even – _doing it_. We were laying on your bed with a bottle between us, and you said it to me. »

Bucky wants to hide. « Oh, shit, » he says, and he hides, behind his hands, behind the sheets. « I didn't want it to get out like that. It's unfair. »

Steve laughs. « Hey, it's ok, » he says. He touches Bucky's hands, takes them away from his face. « At least, you said it. » A kiss is pressed against Bucky's palm. « I didn't say anything, even then. Didn't even reply. You told me several times, and I said nothing, because I was too goddamn scared. And then you were gone. »

« I'm here now, » Bucky says, moving with difficulty so he can hug him. « I'm here. »

Steve breathes his skin, his face buried in his neck. « You're here. »

Everything makes it look like a dream. The moonlight, the haze in Bucky's eyes, the fact that he still thought that he was fucking _dead_ a few weeks ago. It isn't a dream. He hope it isn't. « We should get down, » he says.

« Not now, » Steve breathes. « Just a little more time. Two minutes. Just two minutes. »

Bucky smiles in Steve's hair. It isn't a dream. « Sure, » he whispers. He can give Steve two minutes. He can give him his whole life.

Two minutes. Two more minutes before they go back to real life. Two more minutes where they can pretend there isn't a War outside, they can forget they choosed to befriends with death and blood. They can afford that. They're in the spare room of some bar, the music is still playing, the men are still laughing, the ladies are still dancing.

For now, they can be whatever they want.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://abelmartz.tumblr.com/) / [twitter](https://twitter.com/spacemartz)


End file.
